


school's out for the summer

by kiaronna



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Elementary School, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - School, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Asexual Character, Comedy, Domestic Fluff, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, I'm really not british but I googled the words ok, Kid Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to Depression, Trans Character, also the kids are brats but like? they're no longer eldritch monsters?, i love martin blackwood, super minor depiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23167036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiaronna/pseuds/kiaronna
Summary: The thing is, Jonathan Sims is someone you’d call the police on if you saw him hanging around a school, those frazzled clothes and bags under his eyes, the frantic muttering and thousand-year stare.Yet there he sits, headteacher of The Magnus Institute for Gifted Young Minds.The name’s a bit misleading, it is. They’re in a bad part of town. The parents are either terrible or absent, and the kids—“They’re monsters,” his new and handsome coworker grins, when Martin’s signature on his contract is barely dry. “Absolute monsters. Get too close and you’ll lose some fingers. Or maybe your mind.”“They’re babies,” is all Martin can feebly manage, in reply, and Tim’s eyes narrow at the fondness in his voice.“You’ll learn.”
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Various Background Relationships
Comments: 257
Kudos: 1298





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeah hi, I know we all like horror but like. What if. They were all cute lil kids instead and there were no problems and no death?  
> Quick heads-up: due to the fact that they aren't fighting for their lives and Jon isn't slowly being driven insane by paranoia, the JonMartin moves a bit more quickly, and isn't set up quite the same. Most characters have had their ages drastically messed with (obviously), but not all. Though I constantly reference creepy canon things, nothing bad will happen in this story. THIS IS NOT HORROR. IT IS FLUFF. You've been warned lol  
> Elias is wildly OOC but I'm not sorry

The thing is, Jonathan Sims is someone you’d call the police on if you saw him hanging around a school, those frazzled clothes and bags under his eyes, the frantic muttering and thousand-year stare.

Yet there he sits, head teacher of The Magnus Institute for Gifted Young Minds.

The name’s a bit misleading, it is. They’re in a bad part of town. The parents are either terrible or absent, and the kids—

“They’re _monsters_ ,” his new and handsome coworker grins, when Martin’s signature on his contract is barely dry. “Absolute monsters. Get too close and you’ll lose some fingers. Or maybe your mind.”

“They’re babies,” is all Martin can feebly manage, in reply, and Tim’s eyes narrow at the fondness in his voice.

“You’ll learn.”

And it is a bit creepy, it is, watching Angie dangle ratty Barbies from a string to lure other kids into her amateur booby traps. Having to drag screaming kids from the sandbox because, he realizes when he watches Jon grimly fly out of the office with a leafblower, there’s a kid _in the dirt_ grabbing at the others.

“So,” he admits to Sasha that Friday, when little Graham in a mask nearly shanks him in the leg with _safety scissors_ , of all things, because he wasn’t done at the craft table yet. “They have some issues.”

“Just a few. And our funding isn’t… great.”

That’s an understatement. Martin had originally attributed the utter mess in the offices and filing cabinets to Jon, but after sticking his head in with tea a few times, it became evident that this was actually what they looked like _after_ Jon had spent months organizing them.

“This is from Gertrude,” Jon sighs. “Lovely with children. Terrible with paperwork.”

So this is Martin’s life. He goes to work, takes care of the children, and he goes home, and takes care of his mother. You’d think it would be harder, taking care of the person who raised you. But when you have a kid bribing the others into giving him their baby teeth and you find his… treasure chest of a trash bag… hidden under a bush, it’s a close call.

But for every kid like that, there’s another like little Harriet, clinging to his pants leg because she’s afraid of being alone. Martin’s always been good with children (he didn’t lie on his resume about that). Despite his height, and the too-broad set of his shoulders, children are far from intimidated. He supposes this is the only thing that never changes, even when they become adults. As it is, he’s constantly being climbed on by at least three children at any given time.

“Martin!” Jon hollers from his office at least once daily for his first few weeks. “ _Martin_!”

The first time he actually manages to exit his office instead of clearly becoming reabsorbed in his work, he watches Martin trying to extricate himself from four pairs of jam-covered hands for a solid twenty seconds.

Then, he sighs, and walks away.

 _I am a good teacher_ , Martin tells himself. Clearly, Jon’s not going to say it. Apparently, Jon has quite a lot to say about him—but only when Martin’s not involved in the conversation.

“Does he actually manage to cover his lesson plan, or do they do whatever they please?” He asks Tim, once, when Martin is about to enter the tiny staffroom and make his first cup of tea for the day.

“What do you think?” Tim asks, seeming genuinely curious.

Jon scoffs. “I hardly think he’s directing them around. He’s—he’s indulgent with them. I think it’d be best if you and Sasha follow-up on his work.”

Martin doesn’t get his cup of tea.

(He tries, he really does, not to bring Jon one later. But at 6pm, when Martin’s heading out, Jon’s still hunched over his ancient computer monitor, squinting, and… what else is Martin meant to do?)

* * *

The thing is: Jon’s not strictly _mean_. As a boss he’s hands-off until you ask him for help, and then he’s already got a solution ready. When Tim invites them out for happy hour, he always goes, and he volunteers to pay half the time, even though his salary is hardly better than theirs. When Martin needs to leave early because something happened with his mother, Jon never even asks for an explanation. Martin’s not sure he could give a tearless one, so he’s relieved by what he later attributes to a complete lack of interest in his personal life. And despite Jon’s appearance, and personality, and—well, nearly everything about him when he interacts with adults— the second he walks into a classroom, the kids light up. Jon’s always got some fantastical story. Jon’s always got some game from the room Tim’s very gravely dubbed “artifact storage,” because the toys there haven’t been replaced since the nineties, but he makes it fun.

All of this isn’t what got Martin. To be honest, Martin transferred from working as a helper at another daycare, and his crush on Jon precedes even his interview to work here. There’d been some holiday party or another, and Martin had been timidly socializing, but mostly just standing in a corner nervously drinking punch. On principle, Tim flirts with everyone the first time he talks to them, and they’d just been introduced. Obviously, Martin needed to find a way to exit the room.

Apparently, the side-room was dedicated to kids of coworkers, so they could attend. It was manned by a frazzled looking older man, and—well. Jon was sitting there, picture book in hand, with a small gathered crowd of enchanted little faces. A different voice for each character. There was something in him, when he read.

Under no circumstances would anyone describe Martin as _intense_. This is the only word Martin could think of, at the time, to describe Jon. Well, that and—handsome. Martin thinks he’s very handsome. His small, tightly held frame, hair swept back in a bun, cuffed shirt unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbows, with a green sweater pragmatically dragged over the entire ensemble. Dignified and yet not pretentious. Empathetic. When one of the kids toddles up to look at a picture more closely, Jon leans towards them.

 _What’s wrong with me?_ Is Martin’s first thought. His second is, _not again._ Martin’s lived a boring life with limited interactions, and he’s done this dance before. He fell for someone in his year in secondary school. The most that came out of it was a brilliant “thanks!” when Martin was brave enough to offer to carry something. Martin isn’t the kind who falls often, but apparently he is the kind who falls easily.

Martin walks back out and almost directly into Tim’s chest.

“Ey,” says Tim, smiling conspiratorially, even though they share no secrets. Martin understands why everyone likes Tim, he does.

“Oh, uhm,” says Martin. He’d been hoping Tim would have met someone else new by now and moved on to flirting with them. _Don’t_ , something wise inside Martin begs, but he still says: “do you, erm, know who the person running the kids corner for this event is?”

Tim blinks. “Mr. Fogherty? About this tall? Surprisingly spry for his age?”

“No, I mean—the younger one. Really, he looks like he needs—a nap? He’s in there reading a storybook.”

“ _Oh_ ,” says Tim, “you saw Jon. Is he really in there? God, he’s a workaholic. I’ve been trying to train him out of that. He’s supposed to be out here, enjoying the punch that Sasha and I worked hard to spike. Excuse me a moment.”

Tim nearly marches Jon back out a few moments later. Martin’s heart, which had only been introduced to Jon mere minutes ago, gives a few quick beats.

“It was fine,” Jon says, giving a gentle glare to Tim.

“Come on, enjoy yourself,” Tim encourages. “Have you met my friend? The marvelous Martin?”

“Hullo,” Martin peeps.

“Hello,” Jon says simply in return.

“Nice to meet you,” Tim prompts. Martin’s not sure which one of them it’s intended for. “Jonathan Sims. Martin Blackwood.”

Later, when Martin goes in for the interview, Tim has to introduce them again, because Jon’s forgotten altogether.

Martin hadn’t.

* * *

Martin hasn’t been scared of an elementary schooler since he himself was in elementary school, being bullied. And honestly, he’s not actually afraid of little Jane Prentiss. It’s just that—

“ _Jane!_ ” He yelps, when he opens his desk drawer and finds: _worms_. So, so many earthworms. He’d known Jane was obsessed with bugs, and had spent many recesses wandering over to him with a beetle or worm or _something_ cupped in her hands.

(“Is it a bug?” He’s taken to asking her, resignedly.  
“No,” Jane says seriously as he comes close, and opens her hands, joyfully screeching, “ _it’s an insect_ —“  
Martin is struggling.)

He should, maybe, not have told her that he was afraid of bugs. Martin just hadn’t thought he’d need to hide his weaknesses from a third grader. Martin’s already pulled his notepad out in staff meetings and screamed there, too, because Jane likes to slip wriggling surprises into his bookbag. Jon had scowled at the interruption, and snapped, “Martin! Can you pay attention in one—is that a ladybug?” It was twenty ladybugs, wrapped up in a paper towel. Martin still hasn’t figured out what kind of snake-charming routine Jane used to accomplish that. Even Sasha has come to him sympathetically, saying, “she was in my class before. I see not much has changed.” When Martin wanted to know how she handled it, she just laughs. “Oh, I had a little boy who dropped all of them in a terrarium. It was sweet.” So it’s terrifying, but ultimately harmless (and when Jane brings butterflies, it’s sweet).

Until Martin starts noticing the holes in his furniture. He’d attribute them to his mother, but she’d finally won their decade-long argument over going to a nursing home.

“Yeah,” the pest expert grunts, flipping the seat cushion back down. He’s already circled the outside of Martin’s flat three times. “You’ve got a pretty bad case of woodworm.”

“Which is…?”

“Type o’ beatle. Eat up your whole foundation, it will. The larvae look like--” and in an event Martin will never forget, he cracks open the arm of his wooden chair, “—that.”

Martin has vague flashbacks to watching three beatles scurry out of his bookbag and into the cracks on his wall. He stares at the wriggling mass and tries to push down tears.

“I can’t live here,” he says, trying very hard.

“Nah,” the pest expert says, completely unsympathetic. Martin barely makes enough money to live in what is now an actual deathtrap. He has no idea what he’s going to do. He has no good friends, no significant other or exes to run to. The thought of sleeping in a worm-infested bed is making his stomach turn.

He doesn’t know why he goes to school—surely, there’s more bugs awaiting him there—but at least there’s a couch in the staff lounge. If he pulls up his legs into his chest as far as they’ll go, he can just balance on the cushions. This will do for one night. He gets about fifteen minutes of uncomfortable, barely-sleep, before the lights flick on.

It’s a Saturday, at 10pm. There is no reason for Jon to be standing there, coffee mug in hand, staring at him.

“Martin,” he says, slowly. There’s no judgment in it, probably because his tone is completely made of surprise. It’s not a sound Martin is used to. They continue to stare at each other. “Did you,” he squints, “forget something…? Your keys or wallet?”

And of course. Of course he assumes that only Martin’s incompetence would land him here.

“I, erm.” Today has been terrible. He can feel his eyes growing hot, feels like there’s worms under his skin.

“Where is it,” Jon demands then. His voice is stern. Fed up. Martin wants to shrivel into nothing.

“I—what?”

“I _told_ you that you can’t have dogs in here. This is a school! We can barely contain the children of this community, much less the actual—“

“ _I can’t go home_ ,” Martin bursts, quietly.

Jon’s anger dissipates.

“There’s… no dog?”

“My house is infested with woodworm,” Martin whispers. “I guess with Jane Prentiss it’s, er, all fun and ladybugs until someone gets worms.”

Jon’s mouth is opening and closing. The story sounds ridiculous, but Martin’s fairly certain it’s true.

“That’s terrible,” Jon manages finally. “Are you, ah, going to go stay with family?” Martin must look so miserable at the question that Jon doesn’t even let him answer. “Or, I suppose, you could stay here.”

Martin looks down at the couch. It’s for the sake of his own back that he says, “I’m not sure that would, you know, work long-term.”

“Oh!” Jon says then. “Not—not _here_. I have a cot.”

 _Why_ , Martin generously does not ask, _do you have a cot?_

“Come along,” Jon says briskly, almost in his teacher-voice. Martin stands automatically, begins trudging after him. Before he even really registers it, Jon’s flicking on a light in a small backroom that Martin’s never seen, just off his office. “I hardly use it anyways. You know where the bathroom is, and the old shower off the staffroom. We have everything you need here. In the meantime, it’s probably best for us to warn the custodian in case there’s also a problem here. We’ll schedule a sit-down with Jane’s foster parents, of course…” He descends into a half-muttered silence. Numbly, Martin sits on the cot. It squeaks beneath his weight. _Jon’s slept here._ Absently, Jon pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

Apparently Jon had blankets, somewhere, even if he doesn’t see fit to use them himself.

“Oh, uh, thank you,” Martin stutters, and Jon just tilts his head at him. Martin’s seen Jon care for children a thousand times; _of course_ Jon is capable of caring for someone. He’d never expected it to be, well, directed at _him_.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Jon says disaffectedly, dropping the blankets into Martin’s lap. “I’ll be in my office. Goodnight, Martin.”

And Martin almost lets him go. But the feeling of worms all over has disappeared, and now it’s— _questions_ , itching at him.

“I’m not going to,” Martin laughs awkwardly, “you realize I’m not going to, ah, sue the school or anything? If you don’t help me out?”

Jon starts, like this thought hadn’t even occurred to him. He peers at Martin suspiciously for a moment, then relaxes. “Martin,” he says. “You got this problem because of your work with us. It’s only right that you use the resources at hand. Tomorrow, you can bring your personal effects here, assuming they’re not—infested. Stay as long as you need.”

Martin can’t say anything to that but a mumbled, “thank you.” Jon waits for him to lie back, pull the blanket over himself, before he nods firmly, flicks off the lights. His final words are:

“ _No dogs_ , Martin.”

Martin rolls over. “No promises,” he murmurs to himself. Between the blanket and the pillow, he’s slowly becoming aware of a strange scent, a smoky mix overlaid with the comforting scent of… books.

 _Jon_ , he thinks. His heart thumps. Jon is twenty feet away, just past a door. Jon invited him to stay. Jon gave him blankets.

In the silver-quick panic of the evening, Martin hadn’t even _considered_ how it would feel to live in a place that is constantly inhabited by his one-sided crush.

Tim would be delighted to know that Martin rolls over. Hugs the blankets to himself. Whispers: “Fuck.”

* * *

“So you,” Sasha repeats dubiously, “live here now? Because of a few worms?”

Jon, who is drinking coffee like it is water and reading, states firmly, “they’re fumigating his flat. Jane Prentiss’ family is also having to get their flat fumigated.”

“Please tell me the little bug girl isn’t going to move in, too.”

Martin winces. “No, though I made her devote a recess to watching The Miraculous Ladybug.” They stare at him. “So she can, erm, direct her love of bugs to healthier outlets?”

“That’s smart,” Sasha says, nodding. Jon continues to drink his coffee. “So, it is true that Jon never sleeps?”

“I still haven’t seen him actually leave,” Martin confirms.

“Maybe if both of you did your jobs,” Jon says, then adds just for Martin, “ _competently,_ I’d have time to sleep.”

“Would you, though,” Sasha muses. They don’t have time to continue to fight, because Tim bursts through the door.

“Hi,” he says, “were any of you aware that the concrete steps leading to our boiler-room are getting used by the fifth graders to play a game that starts like hopscotch and probably ends with an ambulance?”

“Fifth graders,” Jon snarls, “why do the oldest always set a terrible example?” He storms out of the office, already shouting, “ _Albrecht!_ ”

“How does he know who it is?” Martin questions.

“Eyes in the back of his head,” Sasha snorts. “Classic teacher skill.”

Martin’s spent a lot of time staring at the back of Jon’s head, so all he mumbles is, “Jon doesn’t notice _everything_.”

“Yeah,” Tim and Sasha both sigh, half-pitying and half-sympathetic, “we know.”

* * *

Because Martin can’t catch a break, it’s Butterfly Week at school.

“Can we tell Jane’s guardians the school is closed?” Martin desperately asks Jon the Friday before, who sighs. “Or that the school caught fire? Can I tell them she’s just, er, incredibly gifted and ready to advance to fourth grade on Monday?”

“Look, man,” Tim says. “We empathize, but there’s not much we can do. The kids are going to riot if we don’t watch the cocoons open up.”

“ _Riot_ ,” Sasha emphasizes.

“Besides,” Tim says. “It’s not worms. It’s butterflies. Colorful, flower-loving, sweet little butterflies.”

“He’s even—even flirting with bugs now,” Martin whispers shakily to Sasha, because he is stressed. She gives him a shocked, if still delighted, look.

“You have hidden depths,” she tells him. “I love it.”

“What?” Jon and Tim both say, before they shake it off.

“Tim’s right,” Jon says. “All the same, I can be in your classroom with you, Martin. Just to ensure things go… smoothly.”

“Nothing’ll go wrong. Little butterflies,” Tim continues, soothingly. “Little—“

“MOTHS,” Martin screams on Wednesday, “MOTHS MOTHS MOTHS MOTHS MOTHS—“

“This one’s a wasp,” Jane pipes up happily from somewhere within the mass of screaming kids. At least one of Martin’s children is allergic. He is piling third graders onto his arms and legs to carry out like he is a lifeboat for a sinking ship.

“Raid insect spray’s in my top drawer,” he calls pleadingly to Jon.

“Why do you have—“ Jon begins.

“Why’dyou _think_?” Martin snaps, over the sound of little Jane’s cackling.

After all the children have been deposited safely into Tim’s room, which are enchanted with their adorable blue butterflies, he takes a deep breath and returns to his classroom. He finds Jon, Jane, and a wasp in a jar.

“Jane,” Jon says. “You scared some of us today. Do you understand why?”

Jane blinks her big blue eyes. “No,” she says. “I like moths. I like wasps.”

All Jane draws is bugs. All Jane reads about are bugs. All Jane _talks_ about are…

“Jane,” Jon says gently. “I’m happy that you love bugs. I love that you have something you are so passionate about. But we need to consider other people, and we need to consider the bugs, too. Do you think the wasp likes it in here?”

Jane considers. “Wasps like meadows, and wood, and eating other bugs.”

“See?” Jon says, “most bugs aren’t meant to be inside, with people. We need to think about them, too. About not hurting bugs, or our human friends, who they could hurt.” And of course. Of course Jon knows what to say; how to empathize with someone so young, without making her sacrifice what she loves. Martin had tried for so long to believe she’d grow out of it, or that he could just give her enough love outside of bugs for her to stop. He should’ve _adjusted_. Accepted her as she was, ugly parts and all. Things don’t get better with you just offering—offering tea and biscuits and candy and hoping very hard.

Martin wants to be _better_.

* * *

“We,” Jon says, after the children have left for the day, “we need something stronger than tea.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Tim agrees fervently. “ _No_ ,” Tim groans, when ‘stronger than tea’ turns out to mean ‘coffee.’ “Is the stick up your ass just a tree? Is it growing bigger all the time?”

Jon rolls his eyes, scoffs, and blows on his black coffee.

“Congratulations,” he says, “on us surviving another day of elementary school. We’ll have a proper happy hour on Friday.”

“Cheers to that,” Sasha agrees.

“Also,” Jon says, “has anyone seen the state of our library recently?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Martin asks, curious, but Sasha interrupts with a,

“Shh, shh, that is a problem for another day. Can’t we celebrate just making it through today in one piece?”

“To not being killed by eight-year olds,” Tim toasts, and nothing truer has ever been said.

* * *

It is a Tuesday. Martin and Jon are taking tea in Jon’s office, with Jon focused intently on reading some child psychology book, when there’s a call.

“Hello,” says a voice that is pretending to be deep on the phone. “This is Miss Sasha.”

Jon and Martin blink at it. Jon has a look on his face that indicates he is about to begin a lecture, so Martin whips his index finger up in a _shush_ and only knocks over one of Jon’s teaching awards.

“Is this Miss Sasha?” He says, smiling. “You sound a bit different than usual.”

There is a muffled _“stupid!”_ and then: “I’m sick.”

Jon _hmms_. “Miss Sasha, Mr. Blackwood and I are very busy. How can we help you?”

“My classroom has run out of snacks,” says not-Sasha, very seriously. “Could someone come drop off a bag of candy?”

Jon mutes the phone. “Do they think we get funding for—for _candy_?”

“Elementary schoolers don’t really, erm, think about funding?” Martin leans over and pokes at the mute button. “Miss Sasha, that is terrible. But you know the rules. If your first graders don’t behave, there can be no candy. And I know I saw some of them running through the halls at quiet reading time.”

He looks up at Jon across the phone. He half-expects a sneer, a _you’re ruining their young minds, Martin,_ but Jon is looking at him with a smile flickering at one corner of his mouth.

“But Mr. Martin!” Not-Sasha whines. Leaning forward, Jon gives a very put-upon sigh and continues speaking.

“I’m sorry, Miss Sasha. But you know the rules. We’ll come by later this afternoon and, well, if everyone is behaving, we may be able to help you out. Good day, Miss Sasha.”

There are a few beeps as Not-Sasha hits some buttons. “Did we hang up?” A muffled voice peeps.

“No,” Jon says, and if Martin didn’t know better, he’d say Jon is _amused_. “Put the phone back on the hook. Make sure it’s pressing the button underneath.” There is shuffling, and then finally, the call ends. “There you go,” Jon murmurs. His voice is deep, and gentle, and there’s not even children anymore. He’s just—so _fond_. Something warm unfurls in Martin’s chest.

 _Crushes are unbearable_ , Martin thinks distantly, watching Jon stand. Then, Jon starts putting on his coat, which is overly large.

“Where are you going?” Martin can’t help but ask.

“Hm? To the corner store, of course. If they behave and we don’t follow through, I have a feeling the real Miss Sasha will have a rebellion on her hands.”

Martin can’t help but agree. Except—

“You don’t, erm, already have candy?”

Jon blinks. “Oh, do—do you, Martin?”

Martin just nervously laughs, and walks him to his classroom. To what he can only define as a ‘stash.’

“Martin,” Jon says, with deep disapproval. “Firstly, you are going to give us an ant infestation.”

Martin now hates the word _infestation._ “No, I keep everything sealed, I—I promise—”

“Secondly,” Jon continues, “ _how much sugar are you giving your class_.”

Martin has to answer. You don’t just—not answer Jon, when he gets like this.

“I only bring it out when they’re very, very good,” or moreso just when they’re not being very, very bad. “Or—if they’re, you know—crying? Everyone likes a treat, or a snack, as a comfort. Leanne goes to piano lessons after school on Wednesdays, and she’s always terrified, so I slip her a chocolate and a pat on the head and—and it cheers her right up. Or, see, Kathy is scared of the dark, so at naptime—“

Jon is rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand. Specifically looking away. _His hair is practically greying before my eyes_ , Martin thinks.

“What am I going to do with you, Martin,” he murmurs, very quiet.

 _Whatever you want_ , Martin thinks, dimly. He doesn’t reply.

Finally, resigned, Jon asks: “do you have Smarties?”

“Yes!” Martin scrambles. “Yes, right— here!” He raises the bag with both hands. All he hears is a _snick,_ when Martin accidentally pulls off the clip he’d used to close it. Then there are Smarties spilling onto Jon’s lap, the classroom floor, to every corner of the room. “Whoops?”

“ _Martin_!”

…Martin fully expects to be kicked out of the institute almost every day. Instead, that evening, Jon briskly walks in and drops a bag of Jaffa cakes onto Martin’s cot. “I saw you had several of these. Black currant flavor is my—it’s the best one.”

“T-thanks, Jon.”

“Not a problem. Goodnight, Martin.”

Martin curls up on his little cot. Today he’d barely managed to stop one of his kids from eating a Smartie out of the cobwebs under his desk. Sasha had, when presented with a bag of candy in the afternoon, been predictably confused.

It was a good day.

* * *

Martin is making up a snack of peanut butter and apples, debating how best to make this seem casual, when Tim snags a slice and pops it into his mouth, then says:

“You don’t wanna do that right now.”

Tim never wants Martin to pine.

“Sorry that me making a snack is inconvenient for you,” Martin huffs.

“No, no,” Tim says, swallowing, “he’s just busy. Elias is here.”

Martin blinks. “Elias?”

“Yeah, he showed up half an hour ago. They’ve been locked up in Jon’s office ever since. I wouldn’t go over there, if I were you.”

Oh, no. Martin’s never seen the superintendent or a member of the school board or—or whatever Elias is. Not in the building, not like this. Maybe this is because one of the little girls gave herself a questionable haircut and started putting strands it in other kids’ milk bottles. Maybe this is because their field trip to the nursing home last week served less to introduce the kids to the elders of their community, and more to introduce a lot of gummy peanut butter to the nursing home’s walls. Maybe it’s—well. It could be almost anything that’s happened in the last month.

So Martin tries hard not to go to Jon’s office. As a distraction he drops by the lost and found and gathers up everything there to pass along the next day to little Andre, who he saw leaving school earlier with only one light-up sneaker, running through mud puddles. That child’s lost everything except his wiggly two front baby teeth. Normally Martin does this every Tuesday as a routine, but he’s early, so he only can gather up said sneaker, a shirt, and a coloring book. He’s admiring one of Andre’s coloring book pages, which has almost artistic spirals in big green crayon he’s used to color the grass, when someone smacks into him.

“Who the hell are you?”

Well, Martin certainly wouldn’t have said that. Andre’s light-up sneaker is flashing on the ground, right beside his shirt, where it’s fallen.

“Pardon me,” Martin says automatically, and then, also automatically: “language. We’re in an elementary school.”

“I don’t care whether these babies learn the word _shit_ or not,” the gangly tween in front of him sneers. Martin really doesn’t want the superintendant exiting Jon’s office while they’re having this conversation. Also, this is a middle schooler. Middle schoolers are horrific. Martin still crosses the street when he sees a group of them; they have a tendency to figure out everything you’re sensitive about and just— _use_ it.

“Young man,” he says, trying to be stern. Martin is not good at being stern. He knows this, but he always tries it anyway.

“Oooh, think you’re _scary_ , do you? I’ve got news for you! Just because you’re some timid ass who hangs out with kids that listen to you all day doesn’t mean you get to tell _me_ what to do. I’m—“

“ _Elias Bouchard_ ,” Jon’s voice roars. “What are you _saying_ to Mr. Blackwood?”

He grabs Elias by the shoulder, who is now staring at Martin with a petulant, fiercely devious look. “Is this Martin?” Elias asks shrewdly. “ _Your_ Martin?”

 _Don’t tell him_ , Martin thinks, nonsensically. _He’s terrifying_.

“This is Mr. Blackwood,” Jon says sternly. “You owe him an apology.”

“You’re not the superintendent,” Martin blurts. He is soundly ignored.

“It _is_ Martin,” Elias says with glee, continuing to stare, like he can see right into Martin’s soul. Martin scoops up the rest of his things from the floor. “And he’s already dropping things _everywhere_.”

“You ran into me,” Martin points out. If only this would cover up his wince at the fact that Jon even complains to random teenagers about Martin. Elias waves this fact away with one swish of his hand.

“Whatever. I thought you’d be more interesting, but you’re not. Hey, do you have crisps or soda anywhere in this goddamn building?”

“Language,” Jon and Martin chorus together.

Elias scowls. “I’m going to get what I want or I’m going to make all of you _regret it_. You shitty godda—“

Jon takes his shoulders, steering him down the hall. “There’s a vending machine at the end of the hallway. I know you’ve seen it. Here’s a dollar. Can you at least get beef jerky or something with protein?”

“I’m getting _Walkers_ crisps,” Elias threatens, and then he’s off. The only thing that remains is the chill in Martin’s spine. Jon sighs, then steps back through his office door. Without thinking, Martin follows, says:

“Well there’s a pleasant one.”

“Sorry,” Jon mutters, taking a deep breath. “I run a counseling program for troubled or at-risk youth, with a focus on the LGBT community. I’ve been working with him for a while, so he tends to drop by. Elias is…” He trails off. There are no words.

“Troubled?” Martin ventures.

“Very,” Jon confirms grimly, shutting his office door. “I have to apologize for his behavior.”

“What,” Martin says, lightly. “The boy he likes doesn’t like him back? Despite him being so sweet?”

Jon startles, then grimaces. “Among other things. He got a scholarship to a private, very affluent secondary school, so going there with his rough attitude and hand-me-downs is definitely not helping his self esteem. Also, he’s going through puberty and—you know what that’s like, it’s practically jumping into a new body. He feels so uncomfortable.” Oh, Martin remembers. Puberty was a lot of growth pains and embarrassing smells and a mess of hair. “He’s very manipulative so he can feel a sense of control, it’s quite—” he breaks off. “You don’t want to hear about this, I imagine.”

Martin blinks. “You think I don’t want to hear about your counseling work for at-risk youth? What, do you think I don’t have the time? You apparently have the time to do that _and_ run the school. Why—why would I not?”

Jon tilts his head, says: “you’re very sensitive. Dark things and troubled kids don’t seem quite like your—forte.”

Martin swallows. He looks around the room, which is obviously empty, before he even realizes why he wants to confirm they’re alone. _Don’t do it_ , his mind is screaming. _Don’t, don’t, don’t. He already doesn’t like you._

“I dropped out of school,” he says. “When I was seventeen.”

Jon’s jaw hangs. “I’m sorry, you—you did what?”

This was a bad idea. Martin’s face turns hot. “I. I got my GED,” he fumbles, because maybe that’s what has Jon looking so shocked. “I.” He turns his chin up. “I got my bachelor’s online, Jon, okay? Not everyone goes to some fancy college, but it’s still a degree. And I didn’t _want_ to drop out, not really, but I had—I had family things. My mum was one thing but—my dad wasn’t winning any awards.” Jon doesn’t say anything. “I really liked school,” Martin finishes quietly. “That’s why I came back.”

Jon still doesn’t say anything. Martin feels like he’s flayed himself open, raw. He could go for some biscuits and tea.

“Wait,” Jon is saying, as Martin steps back. “Wait, don’t go. I’m—I’m glad you told me. I had no idea. With all the self-effacing comments you’ve made about your education, to be honest, I was wondering why you always described yourself like some glorified babysitter rather than an educator.” He approaches, and before Martin can really register it, he’s got a hand set gently on Martin’s elbow. “I just want to say—“

A jarring _smack_ sounds from the door, and they startle apart. Elias’ face is pressed up grossly against the the glass of the office window, his eye and the baby fat of his cheek jammed flat. It is very unattractive.

“I see you _losers_ ,” he says, then makes a grotesque kissy face, “oh Maaartin, oh Joooon—“

“ _Elias_ ,” Jon snarls, whipping his hand off Martin’s elbow and stalking towards the door, furiously muttering to himself, “can I have one minute of peace without a child peeping in on my life? No, of course not.” Martin understands the feeling all too well. Jon wrenches the door open with a disapproving, “why are you like this?”

Martin skirts out, past where Jon’s got Elias by the collar, who is squirming and screeching, “you think you can understand me! You _can’t_! Why the fuck do you think I’ll give you all the answers, huh! What makes you think I’ll even know ‘em?”

Martin, despite his size, is used to being able to slip away, unnoticed. Being invisible is Martin’s curse and his superpower. Yet when he reaches the end of the hall, he hears a deep, breathless,

“Martin?”

It’s Jon, so he’s turning before he can register it.

“I’ll, er, see you tomorrow,” he calls sheepishly, with a wave. Jon looks like he has more to say, but Martin’s not sure he wants to hear it. “Good luck!”

With Elias, Jon’s going to need it.

* * *

Oliver Banks has been circling the classroom for the last hour, moving his favorite toy ship up and down. Oliver has some behavioral problems—which kid in this school doesn’t?—and gets overwhelmed by too much noise, so Martin generally lets him do whatever he needs. This, though.

“Please sit down, luv,” Martin says.

“Something’s wrong with Mr. Moocow,” Oliver replies absently. Martin stops writing on the board. Mr. Moocow is their class guinea pig.

“What’s wrong,” says Justin, instantly interested, somehow awake despite the fact that Martin _knows_ he was sleeping through the lesson not two seconds ago.

“He’s not moving,” says Oliver, and Martin throws down his chalk.

“Hey!” He says brightly, “how about we leave Mr. Moocow alone for a minute and play a game—“

“He’s _dead_ ,” Mary screeches with glee, and that’s when Martin’s classroom goes to chaos.

There are five kids clinging at him, sobbing, others looking shocked at their desks, while the more morbid children have circled around Mr. Moocows’ habitat. Martin manages to drag the children with him over to his desk, where he calls Tim.

“Hello,” he says sheepishly. “Erm. I may have a problem?”

“Have you tried,” Tim huffs, and it’s hard to tell if the screaming Martin is hearing is coming from over the phone or from the corner of his own classroom. “Offering them candy?”

“This is a problem beyond candy,” Martin says, feeling very tired.

“Join the club,” Tim cheerfully snipes. “Eustace in my class has bitten not one, not two, but _five_ children today. I think I need to get him tested for rabies—do you think?”

“I am not qualified for this,” Martin realizes, blankly.

“I’m not paid enough for this,” Tim says back. “Good luck to both of us, then!”

Well. Jon’s bound to see this anyway.

“Hello,” Martin says sheepishly again. “Can you come by? There’s—it’s a problem.”

Jon enters the classroom, and a hush falls. It’s not fair. The children (almost) always respect Jon, and he’s pretty sure there’s even a rumor flying around that Headteacher Sims knows everything you do, everything bad you’ve ever done. Any kid sent to his office starts confessing their secrets.

“Mary,” Jon says, very gently. “Can you give me Mr. Moocow, please?”

Mary scowls, vicious, but does as she’s asked. Mr. Moocow is indeed not moving. If he wasn’t surrounded by a tiny legion of children that look to him for guidance, Martin’d be bawling.

“He’s not sleeping,” Justin declares, which shuts down Martin’s only hope of salvaging this situation.

Jon moves through a parting sea of children, and gently places Mr. Moocow back in his habitat. After moving to the front of the classroom, he crouches and says,

“Everybody come sit on the story rug, all right?”

Every kid does, even the ones that were clinging to Martin. Jon, somehow, always knows how to make it right.

He tells a story. It’s not one Martin would’ve dared tell, but it’s about how they adopted Mr. Moocow, and how many children have loved him, and how much he’s done for the school. The children are whimpering, but—but it’s real. It’s something unavoidable.

“…I think all of you have learned about death already from your guardians. But it’s okay to feel sad about this, all right? I feel sad. Mr. Martin, do you feel sad?”

“Yes,” Martin says, quietly.

“See? It’s all right to say it. And we’ll be keeping Mr. Moocow in our thoughts. We’re going to do right by him, too. We’ll bury him, show him respect, and keep him in our hearts.”

Somberly—quietly, for the first time he’s seen— Martin’s classroom files out the door. Jon’s conjured a shoebox out of somewhere, and some flowers. They form a strange procession, going out the door to the little garden in the school’s courtyard. It’s a nice place, for a grave to visit. Jon says another few, gentle words, and then he is setting the shoebox down.

“I,” Oliver sniffs, “I want to see him one last time. To say goodbye.”

So Jon opens the box. Gravely, Jon opens the box, and—

Mr. Moocow jumps out, into the grass, and begins to make a break for the garden.

“ZOMBIE GUINEA PIG,” Mary screams, again with glee. Almost twenty small voices begin screaming right after her. Martin really needs to have a talk with her guardians about whatever media she’s consuming. He doesn’t like the way she wields her Courage the Cowardly dog themed silverware at lunchtime.

If Martin thought the chaos was bad before, it’s now a thousand times worse.

“He’s ALIVE,” Justin is cackling, “he’s alive! Death cannot have him!”

Several kids are crying again. Mr. Moocow is happily chewing on a flower stem.

Jon is standing, frozen, still staring at the open shoebox.

“This,” he says, sounding deeply shaken, “is unexpected.”

“Yeah, we’re—we’re going to need a lot of tea.”

* * *

It’s not like Martin can sit around drinking wine at school, but he gets some very strong grapejuice for himself that night. Jon’s clacking at his computer until around 9pm, and then there’s a gentle rap on the door to what is, now, Martin’s room.

Racing to open it, he doesn’t really know what to expect. But—but it’s Jon. Just Jon, blanket over his small shoulders.

“Hello,” he says, softly. Almost wary. “How’d it go at the vet?”

“Oh, erm, it’s fine,” Martin says, stepping aside and gesturing behind him. Mr. Moocow is currently enjoying Timothy hay from a towel that Martin’s laid on the cot. “Apparently we just have a very, uhhm, nefarious guinea pig. With plots to escape captivity.”

“A true escape artist,” Jon says. He points a stern finger at Mr. Moocow, who remains unimpressed. “I have my eye on you, little one.”

Something has to be said. He can’t have Jon just—just in the doorway, doing _this_. He’ll go mad. “I have to—just—thank you. Thank you, for today.”

Jon blinks. “Of course,” he says. “Thanks to you too.” There’s a long pause. Then: “Martin, may I ask you a question?”

 _I am in love with you,_ Martin answers automatically, in his head. _Yes, I’ve tried to stop._

Out loud, he says, “of course, Jon.”

“Do you think I’m doing a good job,” Jon says, and this is not where Martin thought it was going at all, “in my role?”

Martin doesn’t know what to say. The main office is still a mess. The kids are underprivileged and misbehaved. Jon doesn’t sleep. They have the nearby doctor’s office on speed dial. They’re both laughably underpaid, and the children are learning out of textbooks that probably were printed in the 1800s.

But for all the flaws, Jon’s done nothing but make this place _better_. As wild as it is, it’s on the mend.

“Yes,” Martin says. Tim might accuse him of wearing rose-colored glasses, but it doesn’t matter. Martin loves Jon, but he recognizes that Jon has many, many flaws. This is not one of them. “Jon, what you’ve done here, it’s—“ he takes a breath, blushing. “It’s incredible.”

Visibly, Jon flusters. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, well, I—I didn’t know you thought that. That you thought so positively, of me.”

Martin lets that slide. If Jon’s still pretending like Martin’s crush isn’t visible from the moon, there’s not much he can do. 

“Jon,” he says, “you’re great. Just, do you mind me asking—why are you worried about this?”

Jon grips the doorframe. “I think,” he says. “I think someone else is trying to become the headteacher. Make me look bad, in front of the school board.” He doesn’t look Martin in the eye as he says, “I thought, for a while, that it might be you.”

The warmth Martin felt, in his chest, practically goes up in smoke.

“And then,” he swallows, “you decided I wasn’t, erm, smart enough to stage a coup?”

Jon’s face snaps up. “What?”

“Because,” Martin grits his teeth. “Because you think I’m incompetent.”

“What—“ Jon’s eyes go wide. Then, sincerely: “Martin, no, I was _highly_ suspicious of you.”

That shouldn’t be comforting. “Okay then.”

Rubbing his temples, leaning against the door, Jon mutters, “I can see why you’d think that. I’ve said—things to you. But I know now that you’re just—you’re too good. I can’t imagine you doing something like that for no reason. You’re not the type to make a power play unless you think there’s something morally wrong.”

Martin stares at him. “You, erm, you think I’d make a power play?”

Jon misunderstands almost instantly, defensive. “I just said—“

“No, no,” Martin interrupts quickly. “You think I _could_ make a power play?”

Jon narrows his eyes. “Martin,” he says softly, “I think, if you were a bad person, you’d have the potential to be cunning. Admittedly, I didn’t see that for a long time, because… I assume because it took you a while to get settled into your new position at the school.”

More like it took Martin a while to stop stammering, or tripping, or in general being terribly flustered around Jon.

“I suppose,” Martin replies, weakly.

“Ahem. Anyway, you’re not a master manipulator,” Jon finishes, “you are a very considerate third-grade teacher. With a,” his facial expression looks like he is in the process of chopping off his own finger, “a heart of gold.”

 _Don’t hurt yourself_ , Martin thinks. Out loud, he dryly says, “well, thanks.”

They spend a few moments looking at each other. Martin puts his hands into his sweater pockets so it’s not obvious that they’re shaking.

 _Maybe_ , Martin thinks. _Maybe he’s beginning to see me. What little there is to see._

Martin’s always optimistic. Overly so. But when you have almost nothing, outside a class full of demon third-graders who’ll as soon hug you as jam a spork in your arm, hope is a precious thing. It’s not wrong, to want good things for yourself and the people you love. It’s not absurd, to try to keep everyone and yourself happy.

 _Maybe_ , Martin thinks, which is why he’s very unprepared for what happens the next day.

* * *

Martin is making his fourth cup of tea for the day, staring dreamily out the window, when Sasha wanders in and asks Tim,

“Did Jon’s girlfriend show up yet?”

Martin drops his teabag on the floor with a wet _smack_.

“Oh dear,” Sasha says.

“No,” Tim says, and then, almost apologetic, “Martin—“

“Who’s his, erm, girlfriend?” Martin asks immediately. He is trying to be calm. This shouldn’t be a surprise—of _course_ Jon would eventually find someone. But are they going to take care of him properly? Are they going to interrupt his late-night sessions with tea and gently encourage him not to skip dinner for the third day in a row? Oh, no, what if she’s here to bring him _take-out dinner_? Martin can’t compete. Well, he’s always known he can’t compete—

“Slow down there,” Tim says. “As far as I can tell, all they do is chat in Jon’s office. Her name’s Basira—she’s a police officer at the station down the road. Wonderful woman. If you tell her that her biceps look fetching in her uniform she will smile but also threaten to tase you.” Martin gives him a flat look. “Hey, I saw her in the hallway before I realized she and Jon were having whispered conversations.”

Martin’s stomach lurches. When he takes a sip of his tea, it’s been steeped too long, bitter.

“We understand you’re going to struggle with this,” Sasha adds gently. “But if it helps—she has a golden retriever named Daisy.”

Martin takes a deep, watery breath. “Does she, by chance, have a cute little working vest?”

“She’s a police dog. Of course she does.”

Martin begrudgingly takes off down the hall.

An indeed lovely woman with a navy hijab is exiting Jon’s office. On a leash is Martin’s new love in life, he swears to himself, now that Jon is apparently taken. She and Jon are still discussing something.

“I’ll take a look and see what I can find, and then—oh.” The expression on her face almost looks—caught. “Hello. Can I help you?”

Jon’s head sticks out of the office. “Oh, Martin. This is Basira. We’ve been discussing,” and Martin _knows_ when Jon is lying, because Jon is an awful liar, “the possibility of her coming here with Daisy for a—a police education day.”

“Yeah, of course you have,” Martin sniffs. Basira stiffens, but her voice remains soothing, so calm. To distract himself, Martin squats down to grin at Daisy, who is unfortunately not wearing a cute police vest. Of course. Nothing can go right for Martin.

“She’s off duty,” Basira informs him dryly. “You can pet her.” Well, maybe something’s going right. He opens his arms and, after a suspicious sniff, Daisy crowds into them. “Well. When he’s done I’m heading out, Jon.”

They nod at each other. There’s nothing inherently romantic about it, or even anything that speaks of something beyond a sense of comraderie. Martin hates himself for hoping.

Daisy nuzzles his face. He coos at her. Above him, Jon sighs. Martin doesn’t understand how this could possibly be a _Martin, pull it together_ moment. School ended an hour ago.

“Good luck with that,” Basira snorts, nonsensically. Once Martin’s gotten his fill of golden retriever love, and Basira and Jon have finished… longingly staring into each other’s eyes, Martin assumes, because they don’t really talk… she heads off down the hallway with a relaxed, “see you later. Nice to meet you, Martin.”

“So,” Martin says, trying not to be either passive-aggressive or aggressive, “apparently she’s come by a few times.”

Jon whips his head to stare up at him. “What? Who told you that?”

Startled at the fervor, Martin blinks. “What, are—are you two trying to set up some anti-drug campaign? The school district would, erm, support that. I won’t reveal your secrets to the kids.”

Jon relaxes marginally. “Oh, ah, yes. Of course, Martin. You found us out.” Martin knows, when he says this, that he has not ‘found Jon out.’ “Martin,” Jon says then, “how’s the flat, now that you’re back to living there?”

 _Lonely_. “Worm-free,” Martin says with a nervous laugh. “I think it’s, you know, going to be safe this time.”

“That’s—great. I’m glad, Martin.”

 _I miss knowing you’re right there_ , Martin thinks. _I worry about you, here. All alone_.

But apparently, Jon’s not alone anymore.

“Well,” Jon says, “if you, ah, miss your cot.” He smiles, like this is some kind of joke. “You can come by.”

“Oh,” Martin says. “ _Oh,_ um. Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

They smile awkwardly at each other. Martin doesn’t know how else to smile.

“See you tomorrow,” Jon murmurs, and Martin stammers something back before he runs off.

He has no idea how to get through this.

* * *

They’re taking lunch in Jon’s office—moreso, Martin is harassing Jon into consuming anything at all, even if it’s just mystery meat from the school lunchroom—when Martin makes the terrible mistake of opening the blinds to try and get them some sun.

“Oh, recess,” he sighs. There’s no way Jon’s going to eat anything now. At least three misbehaving kids are visible from where they’re sitting. He’s pretty sure he can see Mikaele Salesa doing his best to deal Pokemon and Yugioh cards, along with a few Tamagotchi, out of his puffy coat. Jeff Amherst is scraped and bleeding in at least three places and, from the way he’s hanging upside down from the monkey bars by his knee and shooting with a Nerf gun, is ready to bleed in a few more. Martin clicks his tongue. They need to get that kid into club sports or something, work out all that restless energy.

“Annabelle is going to get me sued,” Jon says grimly, looking out the window to the playground.

“Her crocodile tears are terrifying,” Martin agrees. “Last week I watched her happily finish her ice cream and then get Ms. Sonya to give her, um, another child’s by working her way into full-blown sobs in under a minute.”

Jon shivers. “Children are evil.” Martin nods. Then, at the same time, they both say:

“I want three of them.”

Well. Martin didn’t need to have _that_ piece of fuel to feed to the bonfire that is his crush on Jon. _Self-destruct_ , he commands himself. The way Jon is smiling hesitantly at him isn’t helping.

“Is, uh,” his mouth says, without his permission, “is Basira on board with that?”

The furrow always present between Jon’s brows deepens. “What do you… Basira? I don’t think she’d arrest me for having three children. I know I’m not the most—I’m probably not anyone’s first choice for a parent, but I would try. I’m not the worst choice.”

Martin blushes, but it’s too late not to go on. He coughs. “No, you know, I just meant—I meant if you’d talked about kids with Basira. Your… kids. I guess you haven’t been dating for long.”

“ _My_ —“ Jon makes a choking sound. “ _Our_ —“ he breathes in. “No, no, erm, we’re not. We haven’t—I can see how you might be under that impression, it’s reasonable that you might assume—“

“You’re not?” Martin interrupts, simply.

“Basira is helping me with a project,” Jon says, which would be reasonable if not for the fact that Jon is an elementary school headteacher and any project he has shouldn’t be nefarious enough to involve the police.

“But—but not an anti-drug campaign,” Martin clarifies. Still staring out the window, shoulders tightening, Jon says,

“No. I’m going to hire security for our school.” He whirls, one finger out and pointing. “Do not tell anyone about this. I don’t want anyone implying that it is unsafe here before I can put together a proper statement.”

“So your relationship with Basira has never been,” Martin has to almost repeat it to himself. “it isn’t—romantic? So it’s just—“

“ _Marriage_ ,” Jon snarls. A lump rises in Martin’s throat, the floor practically disappearing beneath him, and maybe he’d turn and run except—

Jon’s flinging the blinds out of the way, pressing himself up against the window. Out on the playground, a glut of children are following around a fiery-haired girl, decked out in a white dress, with a little flower crown. A nervous-looking little boy is fiddling with a Ring-pop about twenty feet away. Agnes and Jack, maybe? They’re in another class. Jude Perry looks like she’s about to start throwing rocks or launching fireworks.

“Oh _hell_ no,” Jon says, “that is not appropriate,” and then he’s storming out his door with righteous concern. At a dead-sprint he manages to separate them right after Jack slips the ring pop on, when they’re going for the kiss. Martin can’t really hear much through the window, but Jack immediately bursts into tears as Jon hoists him up and away from his lady-love, and then the kids are shrieking, dispersing in giggling groups of twos and threes. Agnes, ever calm, plops down into the grass and begins braiding her own red hair into pleats. Love is hard.

“Sorry,” Jon pants, once he’s returned to his office, pushing his glasses up his nose. “What were we talking about?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Martin sighs. “Please eat the mystery meat sandwich, Jon.” Really, what is it? Turkey? Schwarma? The world may never know. Martin doesn’t enjoy thinking about meat.

“Yes, of course,” Jon says, but he’s already picking up his phone, probably to call someone’s parents. “We’ll talk again later?”

“Sure,” Martin says. _Probably not romantically involved_ , Martin tells himself, warmly. Not like it matters. Even if he’s not dating Basira, Jon definitely isn’t dating him.

* * *

“Hi,” Sasha says breathlessly, sticking her head into his classroom. “Have you seen a skinny blonde kid around here? Ye tall? Super long and sparkly-painted fingernails? Michael?”

Martin looks up from where he is removing clumps of sand and toilet paper from one of his children’s hair. He’s not clear on the details of why this has happened—something about pretending to be a mummy? The rest of them are almost-quietly working on a homework assignment. One of them is doodling in a big black book—he’s going to have to check on that. It doesn’t look like multiplication tables.

“You can look among my kids, I suppose,” he welcomes. “Do you mean Michael C.? Could be on the roof again.” That would instantly mean Jon’s involvement.

“No, other Michael.” She wanders between the desks, scrutinizing. “He wouldn’t sleep at naptime and was keeping another girl up, so I sent him out to get a drink from the water fountain, and he never came back.”

“No, I haven’t seen or heard him, and I wouldn’t, what with all the noise the AC vents… are making… today.”

They both look up.

“ _No_.” Sasha’s devastated.

“He’s skinny, erm, is he,” Martin says nervously. “Do’you want to call Jon, or should I?”

“Oh, definitely you,” Sasha mutters. “He is going to tear me a new one. I’m gonna get a million questions.”

“So would I,” Martin scoffs. “It’ll be, _oh Martin, how could you possibly not screw the grates on properly in your free time? Oh clumsy Martin, why did you not predict—_ “

“Stop, he loves you in a way that is incredibly annoying,” Sasha sighs.

“Ouch,” his kid yelps, as Martin accidentally drags at a curl, blinking at Sasha with wide eyes.

“You call him. I’m gonna start screaming into the vents, I suppose. God, do you really think…”

From above, there is high-pitched, echoing laughter. It’s bouncing weirdly around inside the vents, but it is unmistakable.

“ _Bloody_ —“ Sasha says, and Martin clamps hands over his mummy child’s ears. The rest of them are hopefully not listening. He calls Jon.

Thirty minutes later, they drag a beaming, no-worse-for-wear blonde kid from the vents.

“Hi, Miss Sasha,” he says. “Headteacher Jon.”

“I hear you don’t like to settle at naptime,” Jon says.

“Sleeping is for the weak,” Michael says seriously, clearly quoting a show he doesn’t understand.

“How do you feel about Scooby Doo?”

“I like when they chase them around through all the doors,” Michael grins. There’s a collective sigh. Well, Jon’s office is now used for Scooby-Doo at naptime. It’s worth it.

“Martin figured it out,” Sasha says with a shrug.

“I thought so,” Jon says, nodding. Despite the fact that he’s spent twenty minutes trailing a cackling first-grader through the ventilation system, Martin smiles.

* * *

Basira actually visits fairly often. Now that Martin is in the know, so to speak, he often gets to sit on the headteacher’s office couch that’s intended for little troublemakers, cuddling with Daisy, while they chat smoothly in the background. Naturally, he is also drinking tea.

“You are a ferocious police dog,” he tells her, ruffling her ears and kissing the soft golden top of her head. “Aren’t you? Yes you are.”

“Excuse me,” says a little voice, gruffly. It will not stand to be ignored.

“ _Christ_ —“Martin snorts tea out his nose and tries to compose himself. “ _Ow_. Oh, ahem, yes?”

“It’s me,” says what actually amounts to _two kids in Sasha’s peacoat_. They’ve also donned sunglasses and her beanie. The effect is precious. “Miss Sasha.”

“Oh, yes, hello,” Martin breathes, trying desperately to control himself and not burst into laughter. “ _Ahem._ How did I not recognize you at first? Hello, Miss Sasha. How can I help you?”

“We—I heard there was a dog,” Not-Sasha says.

“That’s correct,” Martin says, gesturing to where Daisy is happily sprawled across his lap, tail wagging. “Would you like to pet her?”

“Yes,” Not-Sasha says seriously. In an impressive balancing act, she shuffles over. Two pairs of little arms come out of the peacoat and work their way through Daisy’s warm fur.

“It’s late in the afternoon for you to be here, Miss Sasha,” he says. “The buses have already left. Are there children in your class that might need some help getting home?”

“No,” the child that isn’t the upper half of the peacoat says. “Dad picks us up, but he’s always late.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. You know you’re always supposed to tell the teachers when that happens, so we can watch the kids.”

“They’re old enough,” Not-Sasha says stubbornly. Martin decides to go for another tactic.

“How about you stay here, Miss Sasha, and play with Daisy with me?”

“Kay.”

By the time Jon and Basira come out, Not-Sasha has shuffled back to Sasha’s classroom, and Martin (from a distance) watched the two kids run out to an old pick-up truck that pulled up alongside the school. When Basira and Jon exit the office, talking seriously, and Daisy hops off his lap to sit dutifully at Basira’s feet, he grins at Jon.

“I have pictures to show you.”

“Do you?” Jon says simply, and he smiles right back, coming to perch lightly beside him on the couch.

Basira wrinkles her nose. “The others weren’t kidding.”

“About what?” Martin asks, holding the phone as Jon flicks through his camera roll.

“Nah, I’m not giving you my detective skills for free,” Basira says. “It’s my profession.”

Jon frowns at her, but says, “thanks for coming by,” anyway.

“Sure, see you,” she says amiably, and disappears.

Jon is smiling at the phone, but after a few moments, he hands it back.

“Martin,” he says, suddenly. “I have something important to ask you. A favor.”

Martin’s heart kicks in his chest. “Okay,” he says with a tongue like a menthos in coke.

“Would you,” Jon’s saying, and oh _god_ , this is it, Martin’s not even wearing his best jumper, he probably smells like dog, oh—“and Tim—“ Martin’s fantasy begins unraveling here “—help keep the kids out of my way for the next few weeks?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Martin asks dumbly.

Jon looks strangely apologetic. Jon _never_ looks apologetic. “I began an initiative that is going to take a lot more effort than I expected. I need the library and library hallway for a few weeks. We’re going to have a Scholastic Book Fair.”

Oh, now his heartrate is going for a different reason.

“I’m sorry, you _what_?”

* * *

Scholastic Book Fairs are an insane amount of work. It’s enough work that it’s going to get them killed, and there’s no way Martin can let Jon do it by himself. Even Tim, who likes to have time for himself outside of work, begrudgingly gives up his weeknights to help carry in boxes and boxes of paperbacks, to set up shelving.

It’s awful. All three of them have, at some point, fallen asleep in a tiny library chair from the sheer stress.

Jon fits surprisingly well into a small library chair. He scowls and shifts a lot in his sleep, but he also mumbles. Martin’s heart had some problems. Luckily, he knows where Jon keeps blankets in his office, now.

“Oh,” Jon mumbles, stirring, when Martin is trying to quietly tuck the blanket around him. He freezes, caught. Jon looks at him, eyes practically bloodshot.

“You really need rest,” Martin says, finally. “You pushed so hard for this.”

“It’s for the kids,” Jon mumbles. “All the other schools have opportunities like this. I won’t stand to let their circumstances rob them of reading.”

“Some of them are going to eat the books,” Martin whispers. “Like, pull them apart with their teeth and—and eat them.”

“I know,” Jon chuckles, smiling at him sleepily. “They’re monsters.”

“Our monsters,” Martin nods.

“Ours,” Jon agrees, and then he’s moving to sit up, but just that is too much. Martin needs to—he needs to go write poetry. To go have a good cry in the tiny children stalls of the bathroom. He begins to back away. “Martin?”

“Gotta go move more boxes,” Martin says quickly, tucking the blanket around Jon’s arm like he’s a scowling, scarred little burrito. “Have a nice nap, Jon.”

It’s not all cringingly good moments.

“This is a bloody maze,” Tim says, standing up from the last box he’d carried in, wiping sweat off his forehead. Martin sets down his own four boxes.

“Yeah, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but it seems like the shelving keeps…”

“Moving?” Tim supplies.

“Yep. Do you—d’you think it’s Jon?”

Tim gives him a pitying look. “You think… Jon… who would probably be destroyed by any fifth grader in kickball… is moving a shelf with the entirety of the Harry Potter series stacked on it.”

“No,” Martin sighs.

They stare out at the sea of colorful book titles, the Captain Underpants poster.

“Well,” Tim says. “It’s Friday, and we’ve finished, so that’s a frightening thought for another week.”

And _how_ , Martin thinks, when he rounds the corner in the dim early morning light of the first day of the Scholastic book fair, and sees Jon wielding safety scissors against a very old man.

“ _Jon_ ,” he half-shrieks.

“It’s all right,” the man’s saying, hands waving. “No, don’t worry, it’s all fine!”

“Who. Are. You,” Jon snarls. Ah, The Voice. For ages 0-99+. “Are you here to hurt my children?”

“Son,” the man says, “I’m your librarian.”

* * *

Mr. Jurgen Leitner has a work ethic worse than even Jon’s opinion of Martin, during those first few months.

“I’m normally sleeping in the back?” He says. “Gertrude never minded.”

“I don’t pay you to _sleep_ ,” Jon snarls. “In fact, I’m certain I don’t pay you _at all_. I know my books inside and out.”

“It’s called retirement,” Jurgen says pityingly. “I volunteer. My grandson used to go here. I thought it was best someone keep an eye on him.”

“Who’s your grandson?”

“His name’s Elias,” Jurgen says calmly, and _oh_ , does that check out. “That’s partially why I slept in the back so much. If he knew I was here, he’d have been so embarrassed—“

“FUCKING OLD MAN,” someone screams, right on cue. “I’m gonna kill you!”

“Huh, not sure why he’s here now,” Jurgen says.

“I counsel him,” Jon grits. “I invited him to help work the book fair. Thought it’d be good for him to make a few dollars.”

“So he can take that nerdy, annoying boy in his year out?”

“KILL YOU!” Is hollered again. But the voice is conveniently trapped behind several maze rows of shelving.

“They must still be avoiding each other,” Jurgen sighs. “Ah, young love.”

“Maybe you should, erm, respect his feelings?” Martin says. “And his privacy? And not tell us any more?”

Jurgen smiles. “Why do you think he’s trying to kill me? He knows that I know too much.”

Jon has his face completely in his hands. “Tomorrow,” he says, “I need you to stop volunteering here. Or at least—stop volunteering here without me being aware. For today—I could really use your help with the book fair. Martin can tell you exactly what needs done.”

Like he finds Martin capable. Like he recognizes that Martin helped set a lot of this up, that he’d been ridiculous to try and organize an entire Scholastic book fair by his lonesome. Like he’s happy that Martin did this with him.

“It’s going to be great,” Martin says, warmly, and the optimism feels just right.

* * *

The Scholastic book fair goes surprisingly well. Sure, Nikola is very confused by the fact that there are books instead of clowns (“She thought ‘fair’ meant ‘circus,’” Martin explains in a whisper to Jon while Nikola sniffles between them. “Ah, okay, I understand,” Jon says sympathetically. “I want a _circus_ ,” Nikola says darkly from between them). Certainly, they forgot to hide the ladder they used to stack some of the tall shelves, and Martin has to catch little Michael C. from a nosedive off the top of it. Even the two kids who form Not-Sasha behave, although they do try to enter the raffle using several different kids names, and the signature on their parental permission slip is written in wobbly green marker. “I’ll make a call,” Jon sighs. Elias only threatens an elementary schooler once, and only because it’s a pint-sized kindergartener that squints at him and says, “you are _so old._ Are you married yet? When are you gonna _die_?”

But in general, all is well, and the kids leave more enchanted with books than they’d ever been. There’s no fire. There’s no blood. It’s pretty much all you can ask for, from an elementary school.

“Christ, let’s never do that again,” Jon sighs, sinking into his office chair once all is said and done. “I think I need to sleep for a year.”

“I know, I’ll be right there sleeping with you,” Martin groans, collapsing onto his usual spot on the headteacher’s office couch. At least Jon’s cleaned up most of the papers in here, or moved them to another spot for further sorting. It’s almost—it’s neat. It’s clean and calm. It’s the opposite of Martin’s exhausted brain.

“ _Oh_ ,” Jon says, “I—I didn’t mean—but I’m open to—oh. You’re joking.”

“What?” Martin says, and he is too tired to decipher that sentence.

“Oh,” Jon says, sounding teeth-grittingly miserable. Well, it’s been a long day.

“Gonna go get the Jaffa cakes you gave me,” Martin sighs. “The blackcurrant ones _are_ the best, and I need twenty of them. Anything you want from the stash, Jon? Or tea maybe? Whatever you’d like. Tell me now, okay, I’m only getting up once.”

“Mm, no,” Jon says, subdued. “I’m fine. Nothing for me, Martin, thank you for asking.”

Martin rolls over. “Basira and Daisy coming by today?”

“Just us,” Jon says, sounding invigorated again. “Oh, I meant to tell you, I found an old children’s book I used to love at the fair. I—I’ll probably reread it, for the nostalgia, if you want to join me.”

“Sure,” Martin says. “Which one?”

“A Guest For Mr. Spider.”

“Sounds creepy.” Martin rolls to his feet.

Jon snorts. “I promise it’s not. I know you don’t enjoy horror, and my 8-year-old self certainly wasn’t the bravest.”

“Then,” Martin teases, “I accept your offer. But, erm, only if we can do something suitably adult after, or Tim’ll make fun of us until the end of time for reading children’s books. Maybe—maybe we can invite Tim and Sasha down to the pub?”

“Yes!” Jon says, sounding startled. “Yes, you’re right, the pub. Tim and Sasha.”

“Cool,” Martin says. “Back in a second, okay? If you could, er, text them for us…?”

He half-jogs down the hall, not wanting to be on his feet for any longer than necessary. His stash is as teeth-rotting as ever, and he grabs Jaffa cakes and Cadbury, for good measure. Thank goodness he’s good at lying to the third-graders about where he keeps it.

When he returns, Jon is sitting cross-legged on the couch, sinking into the pillows. It’s a much different look, than in his high-backed desk chair. Less intimidating, maybe. He has a glossy illustrated children’s book open on his lap.

“Hi,” Martin greets, holding up his treasure, dropping onto the couch beside him. “Mission accomplished. So—I’m ready to be eight years old again.”

“How long ago was that, for you?” Jon asks, almost out of the blue.

“Hmm?” Martin unwraps a Cadbury and pops it in his mouth. “I’m twenty-nine.”

“We’re closer in age than I thought.”

“You mean,” Martin says unthinkingly, reaching out to brush the tips of his fingers against them, “because of your silver hairs?” And maybe that’s not the best thing to bring up. He doesn’t know if Jon is sensitive about it; he knows Jon is younger than he looks.

“No,” Jon replies quietly. “That’s not why.”

“Is each one of these a particular child?” Martin’s still brushing against them. He can’t seem to stop himself. This is a bad plan.

“Three of them are Jane Prentiss,” Jon says. “Half are Elias.”

Martin chuckles. “How many are me?”

Jon blinks. “Because I always… ah.” Something flashes across his face. “Martin, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. I know that, when you first arrived, I was truly…” _Rude_ , something in Martin’s brain accuses. _Heartless. I still liked you, because I saw something else in you, too._ “Unkind. Not appreciative. I hope you know I have a much better understanding of—of how much you contribute. Of how much you’re appreciated.”

Martin rubs his mouth with the back of his knuckles, embarrassed.

 _Why are you telling me this_.

“Thanks,” he finally ends up on. “Since you are, erm, so appreciative, do you want to read the book?”

“Read aloud?” Jon asks, sounding surprised.

“With all the, you know, voices?” Martin says, gesturing, and his hope leaks through.

“You think it’s funny,” Jon accuses.

“I think it’s great,” Martin giggles.

“All right then,” Jon says. “Listen up.”

Jon was right. It’s not a scary story. His heart beats in his throat the whole time anyway.

 _I like you_ , Martin wants to say. _I really, really like you, you know_. But Jon already knows. So Martin will take this, nice evenings on the couch with their knees touching, happy nights out at the pub, and he won’t complain. In fact, he’ll be incandescently happy. Being with Jon makes him feel like that, even when they’re not doing much at all. This is all he can really ask for.

But oh, a science fair and a summer and one annoying middle-schooler later, Martin will learn he was _wrong_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are still misbehaving children, a science fair, toddlers join the mix, and Elias' No Good Very Bad Crush reluctantly appears.  
> Are Martin and Jon in love yet? If u read the last chapter then you know it's all over for these nerds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah hey jonny wanna explain why you have so many frickin characters  
> they said they ran out of voice actors to use in the Q&A and I was like "that has to be an exaggeration" and then in this chapter I was personally responsible for incorporating the character list. THERE ARE A LOT OF CHARACTERS  
> SORRY IF SOME DON'T SHOW UP  
> IT'S A LOT  
> also this is the awkwardest couple I've ever written and i adore them

Predictably, the feelings Martin has for Jon don’t go away. It’s just that, while they used to politely lurk and pop up at inconvenient moments, they’re now—growing. Evolving.

Jon huffs at him from across the assembly in the gym, smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, and whereas normally Martin would fluster and feel a happy glow, he’s now— _overcome_. So he gives a small wave, and tucks his face down into his tea mug. Christ, Jon’s his best friend. This doesn’t bode well.

At least at this school, there’s plenty of distractions.

Basira’s first day as the Magnus Institute’s official security guard starts with a very intimidating lecture on stranger danger, and ends with Daisy running jubilantly between rows and rows of kids.

“We’re really concerned about stranger danger,” Martin observes, and Jon says, like a lecturing professor,

“Strangers are dangerous. But yes. We are committed. And Basira’s here for plenty of other things, too. She’s invested in the community. She wants to help out with the reading program, isn’t that— helpful?”

“Fantastic,” Martin says, faintly. He’s still not quite sure how he feels about Basira being around all the time, even if Jon has explicitly said they’re not involved. Or at least, he’s concerned until, when he accidentally bumps into Basira in the hall and makes some offhand comment about how close she and Jon are, the officer goes,

“ _Uck_ , oh, Martin. Really? I thought we’d killed this weird rumor. Besides, you of all people should know better.”

And yes, Martin’s obsessed with Jon. Knows too many details about him.

“Hey,” Basira adds, as she has one of the greatest senses of focus Martin’s ever seen, “did Jon say you were starting up a poetry club to go along with the reading program?”

“Er, yes?” Martin brightens. “Do you want to also do—“

“Oh, no,” Basira dismisses immediately. “But I think it’s a good idea. Let’s work together?”

Martin likes her. Well, maybe Basira is a little—hairtrigger. At poetry club, when one fifth grader finishes reciting to the group, “ _I wish I wasn’t there today; oh, how I wish I’d go away_ ,” she bursts forward, snags him, says,

“Is a stranger on the stairs talking to you?! This is the kind of thing you report to your security guard—“

“It’s just a metaphor!” The terrified kid protests. “We learned about them in class—“

“What a great poem!” Martin desperately interrupts, and tries a lot of appreciative snapping to remedy the situation. Some of the kids pick up on it. It… works, in a way. Still, he thinks, he’s glad Basira’s here. The kids deserve to feel safe in lives as tumultuous as theirs. They all do.

 _Plenty_ _of distractions_ , Martin thinks, _from the way I feel._

* * *

Some distractions are sweeter than others. Most are frantic, just a little.

“I don’t know what to do with him,” Sasha is saying, and at that, Michael wriggles in her arms, golden curls wild. “He freaks out when I do attendance in the mornings. We’ve caught him in the vents so many times. He keeps locking kids out of class when they leave the classroom—Michael, stop. Michael!” His wriggling becomes even more fierce, tears sprouting in his eyes.

“It’s all right, it’s all right, let him go,” Jon soothes. He looks up to the door, spots Martin hovering nervously in it. “Come inside and close the door, would you?” Martin does, just in time for Michael to jam into his leg, sniffling.

“Hey, bud,” Martin soothes. “Don’t run. You can talk to us, Michael.”

Tiny eyes narrow at him, a storm brewing. Jon comes out from behind the desk and crouches, looks him in the eye.

“Michael,” he says gently, but out slashes the sparkly little nails. One nicks Jon, who firmly says, “we don’t hit. No matter what. I know it was an accident, but why did you do that?”

The storm _breaks_. “You keep calling me _Michael!_ ” He snaps. “I’m _not Michael_!”

He stomps to the corner, throws himself onto the couch, and starts screaming hysterically into a pillow.

“I,” Sasha breathes, “have no idea what to do with that.” There is still screaming, and thrashing. “What, does he want me to—to call him by a power ranger name or something?”

“We have to hear him out,” Martin mutters, even though he really doesn’t know what to do either. It’s only Jon, between them, who takes in a deep breath and cuts through the howling with a firm,

“What’s your name, then?”

Michael turns, suspicious, still teary. Bares his teeth at them. Hisses: “ _Helen_!”

All of them suck in a breath. “Oh,” Sasha murmurs, “oh, oh no, this is my bad completely. I wasn’t listening.”

Martin doubts some first-graders have the words to describe how they’re feeling. He doesn’t think Sasha should beat herself up too much.

“Helen,” Jon says, very patient, very quiet. “Helen, are you a girl?”

Helen turns around on the couch, hugging her Screaming Pillow.

“Yes,” she says. “Obviously.”

“All right,” Jon replies, easy. “Sasha’s going to make sure the rest of your class knows your real name, okay?”

“Okay,” Helen mutters.

“But you know you can’t keep going into the vents,” Jon says, “or misbehaving? We’re glad we had this talk, because we want to respect you, and we’re going to do that from now on. But use your words in the future, okay? We’ll use our words right too.”

“Okay,” Helen repeats, still sullen. But her red eyes flicker up to Jon’s face, and she wipes at her drippy nose with one hand. “Okay.”

“I’m here for you to talk to,” Jon adds, “about anything, Helen.”

And Martin’s not even the one he’s talking to, but it still makes him feel calm. Safe.

“Let’s go back to class, okay?” Sasha says, taking Helen’s small hand, and she drops her pillow defense, smiles up with her gap-toothed smile. Away they go.

Jon’s shoulders slump. Another crisis resolved. Well, more like—another small fire put out in the midst of an inferno.

“I guess we can just call Michael C. ‘Michael’ now, huh,” Martin says. Jon rubs his temples.

“I suppose.” He rubs his temples more—Martin wishes he could do something, could press all that tense energy right out of him. “Do you think—do you think she’d have spent less time endangering herself in the vents if I’d just—taken the time to talk to her?”

“Kids are going to be kids,” Martin assures him, patting his shoulder. “They’re working themselves out. We all are. And we’ll all make mistakes. You can’t read minds. You can’t see everything that’s happening at school, or at their homes.”

“No,” Jon grunts, “I definitely can’t. Pretty sure that’d be illegal.”

“Hey, America does it.”

“Mm,” Jon snorts.

“So don’t beat yourself up about not knowing,” Martin hums. “So. D’you, er, want to come by my flat tonight and watch Doctor Who?”

Martin doesn’t like to watch Doctor Who, not really. Sometimes it’s too sad, or scary. But Jon loves it, and if Jon’s there, it’ll be all right.

“Yes,” Jon says, and it almost sounds like there’s something in his throat. “Yes, I’d like that a lot.”

The problem is, Martin realizes, that he doesn’t want to distract himself. He wants to—he wants to fall into it, the gravity of this thing, and never stop. Martin’s been many things, primarily an anxious optimist. But he’s not a coward.

When he drowsily wakes to Jon sleeping on his shoulder, their fifth episode humming still on the telly, he presses the mute button on the remote and settles in.

* * *

Time spent hanging out in the headteacher’s office after class isn’t really _bonding_ time so much as just a rotating door of miniature, gap-toothed horrors. Except this one isn’t so miniature.

“He cannot be ten-years-old,” Jon says flatly, peering out to the hallway. Martin, who has never been anything but large for his age, can only say,

“Maybe he was kept back a few grades?”

“So he could train for Olympic weightlifting,” Jon mutters. This is how Jon jokes: he almost doesn’t. And he certainly doesn’t _laugh_ at himself, even when Martin desperately wants him to.

Finally, Jared and his mother step through the office door.

“Hi, Jared,” Jon greets.

Jared approaches them, beaming. At least two of his adult teeth are coming in but the baby teeth haven’t come loose yet, so he has—too many.

“Do you know how many bones the human body has?” Jared whispers. His mother, rather than look proud her son has taken an interest in human anatomy, just seems apologetic.

Martin winces. “Er, no?”

“It’s 206,” Jared says, very seriously. “We start with 369 when we’re babies but they fuse. Wouldn’t you want to go back?”

“ _Erm_ ,” Martin wheezes.

“Have as many bones as a baby?” Jared continues, rising in pitch. He’d be cute, with his little pudge and immense excitement, if not for the actual content of his words. Martin tries not to look terrified. “WHAT IF I COULD HELP YOU _,”_ Jared finishes, still smiling, and breaks into laughter.

“Oh lord,” Jon says.

“Sorry,” Mrs. Hopworth interrupts, snagging Jared and pulling him back a little. Martin doesn’t know how she moves him. He’s already built like a house. “He keeps getting on tumblr. He’s got an older brother. I’m really very sorry.”

“With extended lungs!” Jared declares. “You can scream **longer** , breathe **harder** , brag about **extended lungs**! This procedure is not legal but **I will do it for you!** ”

“Honey, honey,” Mrs. Hopworth says, soothing. “You can tell me about the tumblr later. The headteacher here wants to talk to you about something.”

“Firstly,” Jon says, “I hear you’ve been passing notes in class. Some of them have been—disruptive. We know you don’t mean it, but we’ll have to ask you to stop. But secondly, the gym teacher would really like to get you onto the local rugby boys team…”

When they’re done, all Martin has to say is, “drink?”

“Tim’s kind of drink,” Jon agrees.

“Okay, but how would it work?” Basira wants to know, Daisy tucked politely between her ankles as she perches on the barstool. “What are you extending the lungs with?”

“And where are you, you know, extending them _to_?” Martin whispers. No one can provide him this answer.

“Fun facts,” Tim says. “Jon was born missing his two lowest ribs.”

“Is—Is that _okay?_ How is that _fun_?” Martin asks, instantly on alert. “That’s not fun!”

“No,” Tim agrees, “the fun fact is that he’s the closest of any of us to a Barbie doll.”

“He’s fabulous,” Sasha adds, and maybe there is snickering.

“Don’t remind me about the existence of plastic dolls,” Jon says, sighing, because there have been numerous incidents lately. Some kind of second grader gang war over Bratz or Barbies, Chloe and Megan and even Not-Sasha getting involved.

“Don’t worry,” Sasha says, “apparently there’s someone out there that can make you have as many bones as a baby. Speaking of which—I saw your car the other day, Jon, and now there’s two carseats in it. You and Martin expanding your flock?”

Martin chokes on his beer. Jon says, strained, “all of this gossip is getting ridiculous.”

“Can—can Jon and I not be in his office or watch some telly,” Martin adds desperately.

“Or have teatime or read together,” Jon also adds, for emphasis.

“Professional tip: if you don’t want to get caught, then you have to stop handing over incriminating evidence,” Basira suggests, not unkindly.

She’s definitely right. But Martin doesn’t know how. Maybe, right now, he isn’t much interested in figuring it out.

* * *

Elementary school science fairs aren’t really about _science_ so much as they’re about trying to channel a lot of destructive energy into slightly creative pursuits.

There are a suspiciously large amount of robots, though Martin also has to dodge at least one Rumba with a rubber knife taped on top. Abraham is shamelessly recruiting for the chess club. Salesa has some kind of playdough grinder, Anya’s growing beansprouts and a little tree in a pot, and Jane has been told that she is to have an ant farm under _no circumstances_. Justin is trying to demonstrate how long he can hold his breath, so he’s been quietly assigned a teacher’s aide at all times.

Little genius Manuela had initially submitted research that showed her little brother’s behavior when she locked him inside their home’s bathroom for a few hours with or without toys, but when Jon gently discouraged this, she’d poutily settled on some kind of astrology project. Through the bustle of the science fair, Martin can still hear her singing: “the suuuuuun is a mass of _incandescent gas_ , a gigantic nuclear fuuurrrrnace!”

Martin’s on the judges panel, alongside Jon and Tim, and he happily gives her full marks.

Someone—and Jon can’t tell who—is dressed up in a gorilla costume. It’s adorable, considering they keep having to roll their hairy little sleeves up, and are piping through the mask to explain the landscape they’ve constructed, a little jungle on a hill. She’s saying something about habitats, and food chains, so it’s all going well. At least, it’s going very well until Martin gives a little sniff.

“D’you smell something?” He says. Jon blinks at him, looking up from his judge’s clipboard.

“A smell?”

“Yeah, I could swear I… oh, what is it…”

Jon is sweeping the room with his eyes. “Christ.”

“Vinegar!” Martin realizes, snapping his fingers happily. “Yeah, it smells a lot like vinegar in here, what—“

“ _Baking soda and vinegar volcano science fair projects are banned_ ,” Jon says darkly, wildly.

Oh, that’s right. There’d been an incident, some years back, before Martin was brought on. Sasha and Tim will only gravely shake their heads at the mention of it.

“I’m sure there’s a good reason—“ Martin begins, but Jon reaches up and takes him by the shoulders, looking frantic.

“Martin,” he says. “Martin, I need you to evacuate the children while I deal with this.”

“What, and leave you—“ Jon is shaking him. “He-rrrrr-r-r-r-re?” Martin finishes.

“You’re my hope. Go!” Jon commands. “Gooooooooo! _Tim_! Where are you?”

Martin, feeling dubious and a little ridiculous, starts gathering a single file line of kids. _All of this, for vinegar_? He thinks. Of course, this is probably what sets things off. He hears it, before he sees it.

Where there had previously been a jungle exhibit on a cute little hill, there is now a steady red stream of volcano bubbles, cascading in spouts towards the ceiling.

“GET THAT GORILLA!” Jon roars. It would be hilarious, if Martin’s line of children weren’t screaming.

“Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid,” Martin chants, ushering them forwards.

“Afraid?!” One kid cheers. “This is AWESOME!” He clearly doesn’t know any better. Behind them, Martin suspects the culprit has also set off several rounds of Menthos and Coke reactions, because the entirety of the gym is going up in vertical bubble explosions.

Then, he sees it. The trash can at the side of the gym is filled with dark liquid. The little gorilla is sprinting towards it, giggling wildly.

“Ohhh _fu_ —“

She manages to dump in two sleeves of Menthos, and twist the lid on.

“NIKOLA, _NO_!” Jon screams. He rushes forwards, snagging up her tiny form, and only has enough time to twist them both around, shielding her, with one arm over his own face. The trash can lid goes flying. Jon and Nikola fall back, with Jon scrambling to cage about her. Foam and sticky spray rain down.

Clapping, Nikola screeches: “ _now_ it’s a fair!”

“Christ,” Tim groans, from where he is trying to calm the volcano. The gym is a wreck. The kids are delighted. Jon is—

“Jon?” Martin says slowly, watching as he gets up, one hand on Nikola’s shoulder. The other—the other looks wrong. Martin doesn’t mean to sound so shrill—the kids are right there, but he just has to—“Jon, _your arm!_ ”

“Don’t panic,” Jon says, irritable, clutching at Nikola, who is almost running in place.

“Jon,” Martin commands, horrified, “ _nurse’s office._ Now!”

“It’s fine,” Jon dismisses breathily, but goes. This is how they find out he has a broken ulna.

* * *

The first day Jon comes back, Martin is there, in his office that’s stuffed with hundreds of crayon-covered get-well cards. He is typing, grumpily, with one hand. Martin would laugh at the contrast, Jon surrounded by cards and balloons and bouquets, if not for the fact that Jon looks utterly miserable.

“I’m practically useless,” he grumbles.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Martin fusses, across the room before he can even register it, smoothing at Jon’s hair. “How’re you feeling?”

“Stupid,” Jon snaps. “Who hurts themselves in our profession, Martin? We’re hardly soldiers, or doing anything risky. I’m dealing with threats that barely reach my elbow and weigh about 30 kilograms.”

Martin wants to point out that Jon practically faced down a bomb, but he doesn’t think it would help.

“Speaking of monsters,” Martin says. “The kids are pretty worried about you.” Jon sighs, squinting firmly at his dull computer screen. “Hey. I mean it. So you know what I think would make all of us feel better?”

Jon looks him in the eyes, disbelieving. But his reply is quiet. Receptive. “What, Martin? Is it,” he chuckles, the smallest bit, “tea?”

“That too,” Martin nods, and then pulls his other hand out from behind his back, the fistful of neon. “But actually: markers! If you’re, erm, feeling like your cast could use some decoration?”

“Ridiculous,” Jon mutters, but stands anyway. Supportive, Martin puts a hand on his lower back, and Jon kindly does not mention that it’s his arm that’s broken, and that he can walk. “It’s first lunch period, let’s go.”

“How’re you feeling?” Martin asks again, half an hour later.

“Like an _easel_ ,” Jon snaps, but there’s no bite in it. His plain white cast is covered in squiggles of neon. A mark from almost every child, practically indistinguishable, like he’s been attacked by a rabid gang of Sharpies.

“So,” Martin says, taking a green Sharpie and tracing out a heart, right by Jon’s thumb, “better?”

“Much,” Jon murmurs, unbearably fond, and when he locks eyes with Martin, he smiles.

 _You love your kids_ , Martin thinks. When Jon runs his thumb over Martin’s palm, so close, he doesn’t shiver.

“Want a beach?” Martin asks, switching markers. “For the summer?” It’s so close. Just a few weeks away. Martin doesn’t like to think about it.

“Whatever you’d like,” Jon agrees, and they sit in peaceful quiet for the first time in a while.

* * *

His teacher’s salary gives Martin just enough to only have to take on one or two jobs during the summer. Dutifully, he prints up his flyers--Jon looks them over at his own insistence, and only makes three edits, so that’s progress—and hangs them in parks on the other side of town. The affluent, sprawling side.

Children in his school district can’t typically afford tutors, after all. If he makes enough this summer, maybe he can tutor them on the weekends for free.

He gets a few calls, but his resume doesn’t exactly scream _Ivy Leaguer_ or _PhD in education_ , so he’s not expecting the last one.

“Hello,” the voice over his phone says. “Is this Martin Blackwood? The applicant for a tutoring position?”

 _Applicant_ , Martin thinks to himself, with just a small eye roll. He’d left his flyer out in the park with his phone number on it to rip off.

“I represent the Lukas family.”

“Mz. Lukas?” He tries, and there’s a snort.

“No, Mrs. Lukas doesn’t have time to deal with minutiae such as this. We have one student, a middle schooler, who will need tutoring every day of the summer. Are you willing to come by for a trial period, say next Saturday?”

“Erm, if that’s okay with your… employer?”

“Yes. Buzz in at the front gate when you arrive. I’ll email you the address.”

 _Front gate_ , Martin thinks blearily, but it doesn’t really register until he’s standing there.

The Lukas house is a _mansion_.

“I am not qualified for this,” Martin whispers to himself. There’s a bloody _fountain_ he can see over the top of trimmed topiaries.

“Speak up,” a voice demands from the guard post next to the front gate. “Name?”

“Martin Blackwood,” he tells them, and they laugh.

“Oh, good luck to you.” Martin assumes they mean _in finding where you’re going in this labyrinth_. In actuality, what they had meant was:

 _Peter Lukas is going to eviscerate you_.

* * *

The Lukas mansion is probably more accurately called an _estate_. It’s sprawling, and Martin swears the quiet, hollow walk through the hallways lasts for nearly fifteen minutes.

“Peter is in there,” the _butler_ says, with a slight bow. Maybe this is all a prank—Martin didn’t know butlers still existed. But when he enters the massive domed room, there’s a boy sitting at a desk in the midst of all that emptiness, scrawling on a piece of paper.

“Erm,” he greets, “hello, I’m—“

“Martin,” the boy interrupts. “I know.” He waves a hand. “We probably shouldn’t waste time with introductions. None of my tutors last long, you know?” He smiles, with what seems like sharpened teeth. “I’m Peter. It’s very nice to meet you. You seem nervous—are you nervous?”

Martin swallows. “Can I see what you’re working on?”

“Just some algebra. Nothing too exciting.”

“Anything can be exciting if you enjoy it.” Peter shrugs, eyes back on his paper. It is, Martin realizes, a worksheet. “I’m here to be your tutor for the summer, if we work well together.”

Peter stops writing. “It doesn’t matter if we work well together. I’m smart. You’re available. All my other tutors have run for the hills.” He twirls the eraser of his pencil around in the air. “It’s not like my family won’t pay you. Like, a lot.”

And well, maybe this is Martin displaying his terrible interview skills, but he can’t help but say, “I think whether you like your tutor and whether you work well together is important. Summer is when you can enjoy yourself a little, don’t you think?”

Twirling his pencil around on one finger, Peter looks like he is contemplating the possibility.

“You mean,” he drawls finally, “finish my work. So I can go hang out with the other kids?”

Martin blinks. “If… that’s what you want? Yeah?”

“What if it’s _not_ what I want,” Peter challenges. The pencil abruptly stops, and he taps it on the table, his own drumroll, leading up to: “What if what I want is _just to be left alone_?”

Dramatic. The regal threat is given like he expects Martin to flee wide-eyed from the room, screaming. _He’s not human! Demon child! Demon child!_

Feeling distinctly anticlimactic, Martin says: “er, that’s all right, too, then.” Peter stares at him. “Sometimes I also feel that way? As long as you’re doing something you, er, enjoy. Not everyone wants to hang out with people all the time.”

_Especially if all the other kids are supremely rich, sociopathic middle schoolers._

Peter sets his pencil down. “So—if I wanted to just leave and go run about the grounds, you’d let me?”

“If you’re done with your work,” Martin says, with a little nod. Peter looks like he’s about to test him, then thinks better of it. Before he can stop himself, Martin adds: “In my alone time, I like writing poetry.”

“Oh,” intones Peter, flatly and with thinly veiled disgust, “you’re one of _those_.”

Martin is probably not going to get invited back into this gilded cage, so he smiles. “Mmm, seems like it.”

Peter scowls at him. Martin continues to smile pleasantly. One of them is going to win this epic battle of patience, and Martin has the feeling it’s going to be him. Teenage boys aren’t exactly known for it, and Martin’s dealing with unrequited love. His levels of patience are pathetically high.

“What do you know about algebra, anyway,” Peter huffs, finally. Martin may never be invited back, but he is a teacher. An afternoon spent teaching is what he’s meant to do, what he’s chosen for himself.

“So,” he says, taking a seat, “let me see what chapter you’re on…”

When Martin is watching the telly later, and texting Jon—if you can call Jon’s single sentence replies _texting_ , honestly, Jon—an email pops up.

_Peter Lukas has approved you as a summer tutor. Forms requiring your signature are attached._

He bites his lip, clicks the file, and nearly swallows his tongue at the pay. If Martin’s paid this much, he could buy more books for his classroom, skip the second paid tutoring gig and spend more time volunteering, Martin could—

Signed. There. Martin can do almost anything. He sends it back, before anyone can email him again and claim it was a huge mistake. That they didn’t realize his credentials were so lacking.

 _Martin, I’m very invested in this show_ , buzzes the incoming text. It is a bald-faced lie. _Don’t disappoint_.

Something in Martin’s chest swells. Before he can think better of it, he’s pressing the little _call_ symbol next to Jon’s name. He answers on the first ring.

“Jon! God, you’re rude. You’re lucky I like you.” _I really, really, really like you._

“Martin,” Jon answers, calmly, almost—fondly. “Did you get tired of transcribing the latest episode of The Great British Bake-Off for me?”

“Oh, hush,” Martin steamrolls him, “Jon, you won’t _believe_ what just happened.”

“I have news too,” Jon says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Who goes first?”

“You can’t beat mine,” Martin sings, “so you go first, Jon.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jon chuckles. “The funding came through for my summer enrichment programs for the underserved youth in our area.”

Martin nearly drops the phone. “ _Jon!_ That’s incredible. That’s—wow, I knew you’d get it, even if it’s late. I’m sure Sasha and Tim are thrilled—wait, there was only enough funding for two educators, right? I bet you picked Tim to be with you. I’ll bet you ten Jaffa cakes.”

Across the line, he hears a soft _hmm_. “Actually,” Jon’s saying then, sounding oddly small, “actually, I was hoping you’d teach with me.”

Oh, dear.

“I,” Martin says, and he knows it comes out wobbly. God, he’d never imagined—since when would Jon pick _him_? As his first choice, in anything? “I, what?” On the screen in front of him, muted, someone is burning their tarts.

“When I was thinking of who I’d want there,” Jon says, “I just—I thought of you. No. No, ah, particular reason, besides—the obvious! Which is. That you’re great with the children. But you know that.”

Martin swallows, almost whispers the next part. “Maybe should’ve told you my news first?”

“Oh! Oh,” Jon breathes, unbearably quiet.

In a rush, Martin blurts: “I got a job!” Oh god. “With this rich family on the other side of town. They—they even offered me board? Like—like it’s the 1800s or something, Jon. Like I’m a poor governess. I don’t think these people get outside much—like maybe they can’t find their way off their own massive estate, I dunno.” He’s babbling. “Honestly, I thought I bombed the interview, the son basically said--”

“Martin,” Jon interrupts, firmly. “You deserve the job. You’ll do wonderfully. It’s—you deserve it.”

This is a record for compliments. So many, squashed into a simple phone conversation. The butterflies in Martin’s stomach don’t know how to handle it. This is why he can’t stop himself, can’t push the statement down. Jon doesn’t even have to ask. It just comes out.

“But I wish I was spending the summer with you.”

_No._

Across the phone line, there’s nothing. Just a small, shaking breath. Martin’s messed everything up. Here Jon was, offering him a professional opportunity, and Martin has to go and—

“Me too.”

His stomach swoops. He thinks there’s ringing in his ears, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the way Jon repeats himself, musing and honest. Martin tries very, very hard to bury his face in his hands, but it’s difficult with the phone right there.

“Erm, so.”

“So,” Jon agrees, briskly.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at school?”

“Oh. If Elias doesn’t manage to kill me at our morning meeting.”

“Oh _no_ ,” Martin says, because he never really manages to accustom himself to Jon’s darker humor.

“It’ll be fine,” Jon assures. Mary Berry is cutting off a piece of a tart, nodding, with a grin. Numbly, Martin watches. Waits. “…sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight, Jon.” _I love you_.

“Mm,” Jon agrees, and with a soft click, he hangs up.

For the first time, Martin thinks, he could reasonably pretend it was an _I love you too_.

But just pretend.

* * *

“ _Hey_ ,” Elias says, because for some reason, he is planted in front of Martin’s classroom door.

“You’re not a third grader,” Martin reminds him, “are you?”

Elias flips him the bird. “Jon’s all chuffed because you got some fancy job.”

“Yes, sometimes teachers teach outside of schools.”

“Ha, which fucking golden idiot—“ _language_ , Martin sighs “—do you have to try and get through middle school English? You do realize they’re gonna pay you to do the summer work for the asshole, right?”

Martin blinks. “Do you know these people?”

“I know private school kids. So which billionaire family is it? Oh my god, it’s not the Fairchilds, is it? Their kid’s a piece of _work_ —“

“His name’s Peter Lukas,” Martin sighs. And—that’s _interesting_.

Elias is staring at him, eyes wide. Rant unfinished.

“You,” he says, in a tone Martin can’t quite place, “you’re tutoring _Peter_.”

All it really takes is the way Elias says his name. Martin begins, in a bright but unavoidably sly tone, “he’s a handsome one, isn’t he?”

“Shut. _Up_.”

“You know, I could tell him _all_ about you, Elias. What’s that phrase? It’s a small world—“

“ _Shut up!_ ”

Kindly, Martin doesn’t laugh. “I could tell you about what kinds of things he likes—“

“I know what he likes!” Elias shrieks. It’d be menacing, if he’d hit his growth spurt. As it is, he comes up to Martin’s waist. “You don’t fucking know him! I watch him in every class we share, I’m the only one who pays him _any attention_ , do you think I’m stupid?!”

 _Ah,_ Martin thinks. _Young love_. So lively. …so violent.

“Does Jon know?”

Elias rolls his eyes so far back in his head, it’s almost like they’re going to pop off. “Jon doesn’t even know that you like him.”

“That’s—“ Martin splutters. “That isn’t _possible_.” _Five year olds_ have mocked Martin for his crush. “Surely he—“

“He _doesn’t_.” Elias jams a finger in his face. “But this is a conversation about Peter. Don’t you talk to him about me.”

“Or… what,” Martin says, baffled.

“I will use _your mama jokes_ ,” Elias threatens, the greatest weapon in a middle schoolers’ arsenal.

“Please don’t,” Martin winces. That hits a particularly soft bruise. “Fine. I won’t tell him, alright?”

“See that you _don’t_!” Elias says regally, throwing his hands up, the picture of a terrifying threat. Then stares at Martin, rather than storming off.

“Can I… help you with something?”

“Can you write me a tardy note for my first-period teacher?”

Martin sighs, and goes to his desk.

* * *

One can only be in unrequited love for so long without—breaking, a few times. And maybe Martin’s broken over private, gentle smiles. Over the sound of Jon’s voice. Over—plenty of things.

But this is— _unacceptable_.

“Oh thank god,” Jon says, looking up from the adorable toddler squirming in his arms. She’s got a fistful of his dark hair in one chubby hand, and he’s rubbing up and down soothingly on her back. His face is glowing pink and despite the situation, he’s clearly delighted. _Good dad good dad good dad_ , klaxons are blaring on loop in Martin’s head. “Will you take her for a minute?”

“Haha, only if she doesn’t, er, bite,” Martin’s voice teases, without his permission.

“She _does_ ,” Jon reveals desperately. Martin takes her anyway.

“Hi, love,” he greets, bouncing her a little with one arm. Jon is in the process of melting, fraught, into the carpet. “Where did you come from?”

The answer, luckily, isn’t _hell_ , even if it does _really_ hurt when she latches onto his finger.

“Bloody—Jon, where did she come from? We opening first grade to those who’ve had their biters come in early?”

“Counseling program,” Jon groans. “One of the applicants for my summer program and I got to talking.”

“Oh, d’you—d’you counsel using Peppa Pig, now? How’s that working?”

“I counsel her father,” Jon corrects.

“In a youth…?”

“He’s seventeen,” Jon mutters, standing. “Ocasionally homeless. Already went through rehab at 16. And he’s trying his best, Martin.”

Martin doesn’t need a full explanation to know that they’re already both emotionally invested in a good cause.

“When’s he due back? I could take her round the park, or?”

“Yeah,” Jon sighs. “He got called in for an extra shift, won’t be back for a while. That’d be great.”

“Cool,” Martin says, and then, because he is stupid, adds, “d’you want to come?”

Fifteen minutes later, they’re circling the misty but blooming park, little Julia toddling between them. Martin has to bend over to hold her hand the entire time. This is probably good, because he can’t bear to make eye contact with anyone they pass—mostly young mothers or fathers, who look between him and Jon and Julia like they are the picture of domestic happiness. Well, Martin already knew today was a breaking day.

Julia has a canvas backpack, In The Night Garden themed, that probably weighs as much as she does. But she’d cried when they tried to leave it behind. Now, her steps plod and slow.

“Hey, luv, you want a swing?” Martin asks, desperately tries to distract himself as well as Julia. She doesn’t seem to understand, but Jon takes her other arm anyway, and then they’re _swooshing_ her, screaming with joy, back and forth. A young mother beams at him from a park bench, calls,

“You have a lovely family!”

Yeah, this is the worst. Jon is rubbing a hand over his eyes, the bridge of his nose, like he thinks it’s deeply exhausting, too. _He doesn’t know_ , Elias had said. How could he not?

But—but Martin can’t be _rude_ , so he just smiles at the mother on the bench and sheepishly waves back. Easier than hollering, _we’re not together, thanks, and this isn’t our child!_ Yeah, that’d be no good. Basira might have to bail them out of jail.

“I’m taking her back to my place when I’m done at work,” Jon says. “Trevor’ll get her from there.”

“Won’t that be past her bedtime?” Martin asks, basically serious, and Jon smiles crookedly and raises his eyes up in a challenge.

“I don’t always work _all_ the time. I want to get better at making time for important things.”

They finish their go-round of the park, and Martin swings Julia back up into his arms.

“Actually,” Jon says. “I’ll have two of these little ones at my house this weekend. I set up a playdate for her with another child I know. Gertrude’s grandson. Want to come by?”

 _No_ , Martin’s logical side tells him, _no, no, bad idea, Jon and two toddlers is a recipe for a heart attack._

“I’d love to,” Martin’s traitorous mouth says instead.

The playdate doesn’t disappoint.

* * *

Jon’s flat has undergone some redecoration. There’s now childproofing on the cabinets, and more crayon on the wall.

“This,” Jon says, crouching, “is Gerry. Gerry, say hi to Mr. Martin.”

“Hi,” Gerry says, almost shy.

“Hi. Oh my god,” Martin says, “oh my god, Jon, did he pick this outfit?”

“I don’t know?” Jon says, shrugging. “Gerry, what’s your favorite color?”

“Black!” Gerry growls, in a squeaky voice. Martin didn’t know they made dark combat boots that small. “Red! Blooood.”

“His father calls him ‘the littlest goth,’” Jon explains in a whisper. “Julia adores him. Follows him around everywhere, won’t let him go.”

“I have a schtory,” Gerry says, in a tone that clearly indicates he thinks Jon has been telling too many stories, and it is now his turn. “Shh.” He puts a clumsy, small palm over Jon’s mouth. “Ok. There was a little girl. Once upon a time. She ran away from home. There were no peanut bubber… sandiches. At home.” His face screws up. He pauses, and puts his thumb in his mouth. Martin waits, then finally prompts,

“The end?”

“No,” Gerry scowls. He takes a minute to remember. “Then she sees a lot of people! But. She thinks of her mum. And miss her a lot. A lot a lot. So she go home. The end.”

“Yaaaay,” Jon and Martin say, and clap. Very seriously, Gerry also claps for himself.

“I’m hungry,” Gerry announces.

So— snacktime. Then, it’s reading time, and there’s only one tussle where Julia yanks the book out of Jon’s hands while he’s reading, and it rips a page off. It’s Gerry’s favorite picture book, but the ensuing temper-tantrum meltdown is nothing some clear tape can’t fix.

Martin maybe falls asleep, with two toddlers piled on top of him, during naptime. But when he wakes up, drowsy, Jon just looks up from his parenting book and smiles, a little awkwardly.

“Sorry,” Martin whispers, and Jon just shakes his head.

“You got them to sleep, that’s, ah, a heroic feat. Trevor will be by in twenty, there’s no use getting up.”

So Martin doesn’t. When he next wakes, there’s a sharp-eyed teen in ratty sneakers standing there, arms crossed as he glares threateningly at Martin in the living room, before turning and saying in the softest voice,

“Come on, love, there’s a dear. Dad’s here. Look what I’ve got you. Glows in the dark n lights up, too.”

It’s some happy meal toy, cheap and badly made, but Julia squeals and accepts it as priceless treasure.

“Ey, you didn’t say you had a boyfriend,” Trevor’s accusing as they head out the door.

“Mr. Blackwood teaches at my school, and I don’t recall asking for your opinion. You and Julia are always welcome here, goodbye,” Jon says, perhaps too hurriedly, shoving boxes of granola bars and strawberries and vitamin gummies into his arms before shutting the door. With a sigh, he turns back to survey Martin and Gerry, still conked out on the couch. “What would you say to a movie?”

“Yes to, erm, anything,” Martin replies, too honest. Too honest by far. And Jon comes and sits by his side, patting Gerry atop his little black beanie, and settles in.

Martin loves it. Looking over at Jon’s face, focused intently on whatever documentary they’d settled on, he knows. He loves it too much, and it’s going to hurt him. It’s not about stopping this, anymore. It’s about surviving it.

* * *

“Have the McDonald’s playplaces always been so _small_ ,” Martin marvels.

“They’re definitely small,” Jared pouts at his side, massive arms crossed, but Martin soothes him with a,

“Go on, don’t worry about it, we’re here for you to play.”

Despite the fact that it’s a school field trip, a low-budget celebration of the end of the year, Jon has managed to haul Julia along. Maybe because being the cashier here is one of Trevor’s many part-time jobs. He viciously stakes a straw into the strawberry shake Martin buys for himself, grinning up at him. Is it aggressive? The world may never know. Martin takes his shake and runs back to the play area.

Julia’s presence goes fine—the kids love Julia, small even to them, and incredibly cute. She has a gaggle of admirers, but hangs onto Jon and continues looking through the glass to her dad, little lip wobbling. So maybe—maybe they should’ve seen her rebellion coming.

When they try to gather up all the kids, one is missing.

“Where is she, Daisy,” Basira asks, patiently. “Where’s Julia?” No one tells her this is unlikely to work. Daisy is a very smart dog.

“It’s a real-life Lassie,” Tim declares, when Daisy goes off like a shot, squirming her way into the Playplace tubes. “Though I don’t think dogs are supposed to be in there.”

All of them stare after her wagging tail, which is disappearing into the dark.

“Uhm,” Martin says. “I kind of hate to ask this question, but—how are we going to get Julia and Daisy out?”

“Oh _bolloc—_ “ Tim begins.

“ _We_ ,” Jon stresses, “are obviously going to send someone in after them.”

“Look,” Sasha says, and to her credit, she’s trying not to laugh. Martin tries to valiantly raise his hand, and Tim tugs it back down. Between Tim, her, and Martin, their average height is above six feet. Martin’s pretty sure that Basira would just raise an eyebrow if they enlisted her official help for this. “There’s only one of us that’s kid-sized.”

Jon sighs. “Hold my jumper,” he grumbles, yanking it off, and tosses it at Martin without another word.

“I feel like there is a hilarious and dirty joke I am unable to make here due to the presence of children,” Tim feels it necessary to pipe up.

“Stop it,” Martin huffs, cheeks flaming. He is not hugging the jumper.

“Don’t get lost in there,” Tim sing-songs.

“It’s a _Playplace_ ,” Jon calls acidly, already on his knees and awkwardly shoving himself into the neon-colored tubing.

When he comes down the slide, with Julia in his lap and Daisy panting happily behind them, it’s too cute. Even if he’s glaring all of them down. Julia claps when they make it to the bottom. Jon’s elbows are pink from crawling.

“This was a great plan,” Sasha muffles from behind one hand. “Jon has the best plans.” Martin is maybe hyperventilating and clutching the jumper. _So cute._

“I don’t like any of you,” Jon says, standing as Daisy nudges him out of the slide.

“Nah,” Tim says, snagging Julia from him and propping her on one hip as she giggles, “you do, you big softie. We know you do. Some of us _especially much_.”

They share the bus seat back to the Institute, and even as Jon is issuing Teacher Commands at the children behind them, their knees bump together. Martin doesn’t know what to do.

For the first time, he’s grateful it’s almost summer. Not glad, just—grateful. Love is a burden for a heart to bear.

* * *

Nothing about that summer is—is _bad_. It’s just—dreary. Cool. Martin spends a lot of time tutoring Peter, or pretending not to watch him as he disappears off into the hedge mazes and weeping willows of the massive Lukas estate. He reads. He sleeps. He writes poetry, cramped up in his little bed at the Lukas manor. Jon texts him a few times, but—even though Martin still has a flaming crush on him—it’s hard to reply. Everything is. Just a little harder. His coworkers at his volunteer teaching job are fine, but they’re too busy to spend time together or even head over to the pub after work, so it’s—poetry. More poetry.

When school starts up again, he greets his new class, is bright and energetic as much as he needs to be at work, but—it’s off. It’s all off. Martin doesn’t know how to fix it.

Martin doesn’t know if he wants to. That’s the worst of it—the apathy he feels, at everything.

“All right there, Martin?” Tim says, slapping him on the back, grinning at him. “Doesn’t look like your regular daydreaming.”

“I’m—I’m fine, thanks. Don’t mind me.”

Peter, for all his shrugging and the way he won’t look up from social media anytime he talks to Martin about even the vaguest of personal topics, requests Martin stay on as his tutor for the fall, too. The Lukases offer him another ridiculous compensation package, even if it’s just evenings and Saturdays. Besides, Peter doesn’t look quite so icy, when he pops up randomly to scare Martin during Martin’s downtime, requesting this or that, entertainment or news. So Martin stays.

That fall Jon doesn’t say much, but Martin catches his eyes on him more than once. Jon sends him awkward, hesitant texts that die after a few messages, when Martin falls asleep instead of texting back. Martin _misses_ him like a limb, but the more he worries, the harder it gets.

“Do you ever want to—to get away, sometimes?” Jon asks, “take a break?” Martin doesn’t remember what he answered.

_I’m fine._

And he is fine. He’s functional. He’s there when the kids need him. He feeds Mr. Moocow. He’s there when Jon or Tim or Sasha ask. He still beams, when Daisy drops into his classroom, but he realizes he’s run out of dog treats at some point. He never manages to find the time to buy more.

It was a cold summer, and a colder fall.

* * *

When Martin manages to—wake up, in some words, it happens slowly.

Recess-duty is often dangerous, but thankfully most of the children are playing some vague adventure game where they just repeatedly circle the playground, following some hand-drawn map one of the fourth-graders made but claimed to have found hidden in a chest.

“What are they looking for?” Martin asks.

“Trouble,” Tim grins. “No, sorry, I did actually ask them earlier. I don’t think they know. Pretty sure Raleigh never finished watching Treasure Island or The Goonies or whatever movie inspired him. I’m enjoying how much it distracts them, though.”

“Yes, we all could use a distraction.”

“Seems to me like you’ve got one.”

Martin blushes. “What?”

“I’m a flirt, Martin. I do recognize when it’s happening.”

“I know, I know,” Martin flusters. “I’m too obvious, even the kids have figured it out, oh _haha_ Martin is at his hopeless crush agai—“

“Whoa there,” Tim interrupts. “This is a different kind of teasing, has been for a while. Jon’s started flirting back. And you’ve actually—toned it down. It’s concerning, to be realistic with you.”

“Jon doesn’t _flirt_ ,” Martin panics. The word’s one of the few missing from his massive vocabulary. That and _fun_.

“Honestly, I’ve never seen it before either. It wasn’t particularly thrilling to watch. Suppose I can’t blame you for not noticing.”

Martin watches some of the first graders give up on the treasure hunt, plopping down to start making daisy chains and tugging at each others’ hair. It’s getting brutal out there.

“He hasn’t made me _tea_ ,” Martin points out triumphantly.

“That’s your love language, Martin, and,” he smiles, “it’s a rare one. So he hasn’t made you tea. Well, he’s never sought _me_ out in the middle of recess unless the school was literally on fire.”

Martin blinks. “He hasn’t sought me out at—oh _bugger_ , Tim, where is he—“

“Hello,” Jon says, somewhat breathlessly, when Martin’s frantic gaze lands on him. “I was hoping to get your input on the reading list for the third graders. Do you have time after school?”

Martin always has time after school. He can’t even visit his mother’s nursing home anymore; the receptionist glares him down every time.

“Sure,” Martin squeaks. “I—I’ll make the tea?”

“Naturally. You’re the expert,” Jon says seriously, and he’s never said _anything_ like that to Martin before. Never claimed Martin had a talent at anything, anything at all. This is why it is completely understandable that Martin turns bright red.

“Great, it’s settled,” he babbles, “so then.” Luckily, there is a sudden:

“ _Mr. Blackwood_!” Screech from the playground.

“Popular,” Tim laughs, clapping him on the back.

“I’ll see you later, then, Martin,” Jon says, and Martin’s glad he manages a smile before he runs off.

* * *

Despite Tim’s insinuations, Jon’s got a stack of children’s literature on his desk when Martin enters, because despite what years of Martin’s fantasies dictate, he did not lure Martin here under false pretenses to—to seduce him. It sounds ridiculous, even in Martin’s head. What Jon _doesn’t_ know is that the mere sight of Jon, flipping eagerly through the stacks and discussing _reading level_ and listening seriously to Martin’s opinions is a seduction all of its own. It’s causing some mild panic.

When it becomes clear that Martin wasn’t paying attention to Jon’s last rant on _My Father’s Dragon_ , he’s fully expecting Jon’s trademark Disappointed sigh and some cutting comment on his work ethic. Instead, Jon’s eyes soften and he simply says,

“Are you tired? It—it’s been a long day.”

“Oh! Er, no, I just,” Martin fights back a blush. _I like staring at you. I like the sound of your voice_. He’d almost forgotten that, in the last few months. Rediscovering it is—distorting. “I’m a bit peckish?” This isn’t even a lie.

Jon blinks. He looks at the clock. “Oh,” he says, “I’m nearly late for dinner with Georgie.”

Martin knows _exactly_ who Georgie is, and this is why he can’t help the way his stomach falls to the floor. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to keep her waiting. I’ll just—I’ll just pack up, then.” He’s busying himself with his thankfully bug-free bag when there’s a loud, strained,

“Wait, Martin. Would you, erm—would you like to come?”

Martin can’t help himself. “Would I like to be your third wheel as you reconnect with your ex?”

Jon looks stricken. “You—you _know_ —I mean, we’re not— _Martin_.”

“What,” Martin says sourly. He’s in love, not an idiot.

“Georgie has a fiancée,” Jon blurts. “You, uh, you actually know her. Melanie?”

Melanie had been their physical education teacher, but she had—and Martin has heard about it, though obviously not all the details—a congenital eye disease that had worsened significantly in the last year. She had jokingly and bitterly commented that the kids kicking up dirt and throwing dodgeballs at her face and shooting her in the leg with a very, very not-allowed BB gun didn’t exactly help. Melanie is perhaps not someone best suited to work with kids, although Martin can tell she used to love it.

“She’s in a better place now,” Jon assures, as if reading Martin’s mind. That’s a strange thought, too—Jon is hyperaware of some things. Of the children, certainly. Of Martin—never. But now he is. Now he’s inviting Martin out.

“Is it, um, your old school friends?” Martin has to ask.

Jon blinks. “Old school—ah. No. Georgie’s one of the few I keep in contact with. It would just be us four.”

Martin instantly hates himself, especially when he blurts: “so you’re asking me on a double date, then?” The following silence is… painful. Jon stares at him, across a pile of colorful children’s book titles, his mouth working and the voice that Martin loves completely absent. He’s reduced Jon to—to _speechlessness_. “Haha,” Martin says then. Martin needs to talk to people his own age. Martin needs to have friends. Something logical but exhausted in him is arguing this point. He can’t afford to just—to just shut down the first dinner invite he’s had with non-coworkers in years. “It’s, it’s a joke?”

This doesn’t seem to unwind Jon’s shoulders, but he seems to accept it anyway. “Of course.” Jon sputters immediately. “Yes, well, I’ll pack up and we’ll head out?”

It’s not too far. They decide to walk, and despite the height difference, Jon is faster, with quick and long steps. Their shoulders occasionally bump. The conversation is pleasant, Martin pointing out interesting window displays and Jon turning to them with “oh! Yes, look at that,” followed by discussion. For someone else, it might be boring. Honestly, Martin’s convinced most dates, most people, are definitively boring. It’s just that they’re _your_ people, _your_ dates, that make the whole thing feel so toe-curlingly special. It’s how it makes him feel, to watch Jon rub his hands together, to say,

“Are you cold? Would you like my gloves?”

Jon presses his lips together. “Yes,” he says softly. “I’d appreciate that, Martin. Thank you.” Despite everything, Jon’s hands aren’t dwarfed by Martin’s gloves—he can’t help but make fun of him for that.

“You spend so much time typing,” Martin says, spreading his fingers out against Jon’s newly mittened ones, “clearly they’ve grown. To—to compensate.” His heart is racing in his chest. He’s awful at this.

Jon clears his throat, tugs his hand back to adjust his glasses. “Mm. I nearly cut one of my fingers off the other day while cooking, so maybe they’re too large. In the way.”

“You cook?” Martin asks, almost surprised.

“Do you think I feed myself frozen dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese?” This could be a condescending statement, but it’s not. Jon’s smiling. “Which is to say. Yes, I cook. Do you?”

Martin loves cooking. When you spend a lot of time alone in your house and you’re feeding a body as tall and wide as his, there’s not much else to do.

“Of course. Erm. Mostly homemade dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. You know, if both of us are clearly good cooks, why are we bothering with a restaurant?” Martin doesn’t know who’s talking. It hardly sounds like him. He gets mouthy, but it’s always rarer, in front of Jon. He’s almost hesitant, to hear Jon’s answer, to get what is surely going to be some kind of annoyance—

“Because of the excellent company, of course.” The voice is warm, and not Jon’s. Ah, so this is…

“Georgie,” Jon huffs, almost sounding relieved. She comes up, gives him a side hug, nods to Martin. Holding her hand is a woman who looks just like the Melanie that taught physical education at their school, but a thousand times happier.

“Hi, Melanie,” he greets. He doesn’t expect her to remember him—especially because she can’t see—but she smiles anyway. “I’m, er—“

“Is that Martin Blackwood?”

“You _know_ him?” Georgie asks. “Jon, I tell you a thousand times to bring whoever it is you’re always blushing over texting, I _torture_ you to fess up, and the whole time Melanie could’ve just _told_ me?”

“Don’t look at me, I never thought they’d date—“ Martin flinches “—he’s a _dog person_ and Jon is _repressed_.”

Martin blinks. There’s a lot happening. He can hardly focus in. He hasn’t talked to people in so long. “We aren’t, uhm, dating. Sorry, did your whole friend group rally together because of a mutual love for cats?”

“ _Let’s go inside the_ _restaurant_ ,” Jon says with conviction, not helpful at all. Usually kids are running where he points or confessing their sticky sins to him when he uses The Voice, but it holds little power here.

“Wait until you meet our cat,” Melanie promises, swinging their hands together.

“Not dating?” Georgie is questioning Jon, as he holds the door open for Martin and practically shoves all of them through it with the force of his glare. Melanie and Georgie immediately head for a booth, and Jon only stops briefly to mention to their waiter that he’d called earlier to confirm a Braille menu, and the waiter says, _of course_.

Melanie and Georgie are lovely. Jon is tucked beside him in the booth, and he’s unwinding in the presence of an old friend in a way Martin’s never seen before. When Martin inevitably drops both his napkin and his fork, Jon doesn’t—scoff. Or even sigh. He—he _smiles_.

“Martin, really. Even outside of work.”

“The man wants to share a fork,” Georgie says slyly.

 _Not dating_ , Martin frantically wants to remind her. Jon slides Martin his own fork and napkin, and leaves to get the waiter. _Oh no_.

“So,” Melanie says, almost patiently. “Took you a while, but finally got Jon out of the principal’s office long enough to fall in love with you back.”

Martin buries his face in his hands. “I—I told you. We’re not dating.”

“Look,” Georgie says. “I’ve heard Jon recount the time some farm kid brought his prize-winning, several hundred pound pig to school for show and tell and he thought it was going to eat a first grader. I’ve heard Jon rant about some kid who snuck his astronaut costume from Halloween to school, ran away from home, and lived in the playground’s spaceship for a weekend.”

Martin smiles, even as he remembers the sheer _panic_ they’d all faced upon hearing from Jan’s aunt that he’d disappeared. “He had a whole pack of Oreos, chips, and some juiceboxes. He swore he’d been out there for three weeks and that he’d been to the moon. We didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.”

“It’s hilarious,” Georgie says. “But not my point. For every insane elementary school story I’ve heard from Jon in the last month, I’ve also heard a story about you.”

Martin’s mouth goes dry. “Jon complains about me a lot, I know.” He should be used to it by now. He’d realized it extended to coworkers, and apparently Elias, but not to—to all of Jon’s friends.

Georgie squints at him. “Some of your stories are good, I guess. The one about you hauling fire extinguishers over from the firehouse and stuffing all the empty drawers with them because a kid in Sasha’s class was a pyro— _that_ was a good story. But the other half of the time, Jon’s just telling me about—about you getting some new flavor of tea, or helping out some kid, or something…”

“Boring,” Melanie supplies. “Mundane.”

Martin bristles as much as he can. “Sorry that we can’t all—all lead thrilling and cat-filled lives.”

“Hey,” Georgie says, suddenly soothing. “Martin, look. I’m trying to say that he likes you. Nobody thinks someone just walking a group of kids—even really, really poorly behaved ones—across a street is worth a ten minute story. But when it’s you, Jon does.”

Jon’s spent a lot of years definitely _not_ liking him. How does something like that balance out?

God, Martin’s loved him so long. He’s never really let himself consider that Jon might now like him _back_.

“I,” Martin says, drawing in a deep breath, “what do I _do_?”

“You google _asexual_ on the web,” Melanie recommends.

“Obviously I’ve already _done_ that,” Martin huffs nervously. Of course he’s done that. It felt foolish, overly optimistic, at the time. Georgie is smiling wider.

“And get ready for some intense cuddling sessions, I bet. God knows that Jon needs a hug, and you seem like a good man for the job.”

Jon’s reappeared, napkin roll in hand.

“Erm,” he says. “Georgie. Can we just have a, a nice dinner where no one analyzes the state of my love life?”

“No,” says Melanie firmly. “You’re not going to do it, let us.” Beaming, Georgie squeezes her hand. Jon slides back into the booth, and doesn’t look at Martin.

“S-so,” Martin tries to redirect, “Georgie, what do you like to do?”

Georgie points at him, one lovely finger dropping out of where her elbow’s propped on the table. “Do you see this, Jon? This is how you talk to friends.”

“I talk to you,” Jon protests, but he is slightly pink.

“Ranting about one of the children at your school locking themselves in the custodial closet and coloring _their entire body with purple Sharpie_ while eating two packs of blackcurrant millions, all because purple is their favorite color, is _not_ talking to me.”

Jon cuts the briefest look towards Martin, looking almost—concerned. It’s almost funny. Like he believes Martin doesn’t know that Jon is like this; like this will change his opinion of him. Martin knows exactly what Jon is like.

“How is The Admiral?” Jon asks, an olive branch.

“Fluffy,” Melanie supplies. “When we go on our next trip, you should cat-sit.” Georgie gently takes her chin and gives her a peck on the lips, humming an agreement.

“Thanks for asking, Martin,” Georgie moves on to replying, finally. “I’m a radio host and podcast writer. My current pet project is a horror podcast.”

“Oh,” Martin says, trying to smile, “that sounds, er, lovely.”

“You don’t have to listen, Martin,” Melanie laughs, then turns to Georgie. “He can’t handle horror at all. He’s too sweet.”

“I deal with _feral children_ ,” Martin tries to defend himself. “O-of course I don’t enjoy anything else that makes it hard to sleep at night.”

Then, they’re—laughing. Even Jon is chuckling. Martin made them _laugh_.

“Feral children, now there’s an idea for the podcast,” Georgie muses then.

“So maybe I’ve been giving you ideas for it,” Jon grumbles then, “instead of, what did you call it, _ranting_?”

“Tou _che_ ,” Georgie grins, eyes sparkling. Martin is starting to see how they became friends. It makes sense—at some point, Jon didn’t run a troubled elementary school. At some point, Jon was a young college student with ideals and friends, who made jokes and probably did his fair share of sassing people, when he’d slept enough.

“I was listening to the most recent episode while doing alphabetizing the other day,” Jon begins, and it’s so—so _normal_. He sits up out of his slouch as he speaks, moving his hands from where they’d been clasped about the back of his neck, and a cool palm comes to rest atop Martin’s in the booth. He almost jumps, to find it there. “Oh. I, my apologies, Martin.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Martin says. He hasn’t moved the hand. “It’s—just fine.”

After a long beat, Jon resumes talking to Georgie, animated. _Oh_ , Martin thinks warmly, _this is just fine._

“I think everyone has, ah, missed you,” Jon says, eyes low, when he’s walking Martin home. Because he is Jon, and cannot say _I’ve missed you_.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

But despite the way Jon lifts up on his tiptoes to hug him before they part for the evening, Martin’s not sure what to do next.

* * *

“Here’s what you do,” Elias says, confidently. “And it works without fail. Just annoy the _shit_ out of him.” Yeah, somehow Martin doesn’t think it’s a flawless plan.

“Is that what you do to Peter?”

“We do it to each other,” Elias corrects. At some point during the summer, he’d tagged along with Martin to tutoring once or twice. Peter looked like he swallowed a lemon, but didn’t say _no_. In fact, he’d started printing off multiple copies of the problem sets. He’d let Elias hang out in the garden while he explored, even knowing that Elias was watching, which he hated when Martin did.

“I’m not denying this plan is, erm, brilliant,” Martin says. “But I annoyed Jon for a few years already. That didn’t really work. Mutual respect is a better bet, don’t you think?”

“Hmph,” Elias snorts. Typical teenage boy. “Hey, I did make him a bet.” Elias smirks. “If I win, he has to go on a date with me.”

“Gambling is not appropriate for middle schoolers,” Martin adds, probably on reflex. He’s been spending a lot of time with Jon. However, decades of American movies about high school seem to agree with Elias on the success of this plan.

“What happens if he wins?”

Elias blinks. “Uh.”

“You don’t _know_?”

“He’s not gonna win!” Elias protests. He’s scribbling in some kind of sketchbook. Martin’s always wondered if he has hobbies, besides aggressively maintaining his scholarship and torturing Jon. And now that he’s seen a few of Elias’ drawings, he knows that’s his true love. Elias has great perspective, a wonderful eye for detail. Martin bets that if he looked, it’d be a drawing of a certain boy.

“Can I ask why you like him?” Martin explores. He’s a brave man.

Elias snorts. “Peter doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him. He really likes himself, and enjoys the crap he chooses to do. In middle school, that’s basically a superpower. So it’s just—it’s cool, okay? He’s really cute, too. I DON’T HAVE TO EXPLAIN MYSELF TO YOU. I’m gonna go talk to Jon now. Asswipe.”

Martin doesn’t need to ask himself why he likes Jon. He always has, and maybe always will. He’s—he’s not going to be afraid of it, or hide from himself, or stop looking on the bright side of things. But he’s not going to be hopelessly optimistic, either. Martin doesn’t need comfort alone, false or real.

Sooner or later, he’ll have to take action.

* * *

Before he knows it, the school term’s over, and it’s the holidays.

“Martin,” comes the stiff, yet still mocking voice over the phone. “Could I trouble you, my assistant, to bring me a pair of gloves?”

“ _Peter_?” Martin says into the phone, rubbing at his eyes. He’d fallen asleep on the couch. “It’s Sunday. My day off. Besides, didn’t we cancel yesterday because you had a cold? Where are you that you need gloves?”

“Look,” Peter says. “I lost my gloves, and I’m over sledging at Bright Lake park.” There’s a long pause. “I called the house, but nobody picked up.”

Martin looks down, to his now-cool cup of tea and his slippers. Well. He’s not enjoying his time here, not really. He may as well go. His sick, foolish kid needs gloves.

“Give me thirty minutes, okay?”

“Guess I’ll freeze until then,” Peter sneers, and Martin grits,

“ _Twenty_. You’re welcome, by the way. At least try for self-preservation, Peter.”

Bundling up, he grabs an old pair of his mother’s mittens, hoping the size is better. It is only once he’s already got his snow boots on, and is trudging through the ice outside, that he has an inkling of an email he’d read that week. One he’d ignored, just as he’s ignored all others. Because Martin is still a bit tired. Mostly—embarrassed.

_The Magnus Institute will be providing sledges to any interested student for a fun day in the winter wonderland of Bright Lake Park this Sunday—_

It’s too late to turn around.

* * *

Because Martin is an unlucky, very conspicuous six-foot-three, he’s spotted in about two minutes. Out on the hill, he can already see a glut of kids, screaming and pushing and throwing snowballs at kids that’re sledging.

“Martin!” Jon’s cheeks are ruddy, and he’s too _close_ , even from ten feet away. His struggle to burrow through the snow towards Martin is almost funny. “I—I didn’t know you’d be here today. You didn’t say. Are you with Peter?”

God, it’d only been a few days, and Martin had missed him. Martin swallows, tucks his hands in his coat pockets. “Yes,” he says. “He called and asked if I could bring him a pair of gloves. He’s not supposed to be out here today, he’s got a bit of a cold, but. He’s a stubborn one.” This was Peter, who asked for little, preferring to do it all himself. Martin’s just grateful Peter gave up enough pride to call him at all. It hurts to think of the phone at the Lukas manor ringing, ringing, out into the quiet, with no one there to pick up. “Have you seen him?”

Jon shakes his head. “Martin, I was wondering if you’d—“

“I have to find him,” Martin says, and hidden away, his hands shake. “Goodbye, Jon.”

“Just— _wait_ —“ Jon is puffing, but by now, Martin’s scanned the whole hill.

Peter’s not any of the kids sledging down it. There’s the kids that form Not-Sasha, on a runner that holds two, screaming as they sweep down. There’s Gerry, stark black and red against the snow. Helen, off making a too-complex igloo on the side. There’s Elias, watching sullenly from atop a snowboard, like he is disappointed with the view. There’s Trevor on the smallest hill, dragging a happily shrieking Julia back and forth on her little sledge, her coat shiny and new and his torn at both elbows. Daisy’s chasing behind them, joyfully kicking up snow.

None of them are Peter.

 _Where are you_ , Martin thinks.

“Hey, your Not-Sasha is trying to stand up on the runner,” he says, and Jon whips around, the picture of adult supervision. There. Distracted. For good reason, too.

And Martin’s taking off. He doesn’t have time for—for whatever Jon is trying to say. For whatever pity or obligation Jon is trying to give him.

On the side of the huge hill, leading up into denser forest, there’s a single set of tracks. Of course. Martin pulls his coat tighter about him, braces against the wind, and runs.

* * *

The tracks go on for too long; almost twenty minutes of trudging. Past the boundaries where any regular kid would want to sledge—steeper and rockier, with icier sprays. It’s empty out here; too empty. Barren and dangerous.

“Peter,” he hisses, to no one.

Somehow, in a landscape of branches and cool, muted snow, he sees a patch of dark grey, splashed at the base of a dark oak tree.

“ _Peter_!” He yells. “Peter—“

But Peter doesn’t move. Once Martin struggles through the snow and the vicious wind, he can see why.

“Oh _fuck_.” Already unbuttoning his coat, he picks up the pace, makes his way to the sprawl of broken sledge and boy. “Peter, Peter, please. Wake up, Peter.” He doesn’t stir. “Come on. Come on, I’m here to mock, you love that, come on.” He still doesn’t stir. Wrapping his coat around the much smaller form, holding him in his arms, Martin can’t think of much else to do but sit back on his heels and yell: “help! Oh, god, someone help!”

The wind is the only thing that answers. Something about Peter’s foot doesn’t seem like the angle’s right—Martin’s loath to move him. But the only other option is—is _abandoning him_. In the freezing cold.

 _My own family doesn’t like me_ , Peter’s told him once. _I don’t care. And I don’t expect you to, either_.

Martin’s not going to do that. With shaking fingers, he pulls out his cellphone, even though he already knows it’s going to have no signal. Martin sits there, tapping helplessly at the screen, for a full minute. Then he accepts it: indecision is something he can’t afford. He warms Peter up for a few minutes, using his own coat, but then…

“I have to move you,” he whispers to Peter’s prone form, his pale face. “I’m sorry. I don’t want it to hurt, but I can’t let you get hypothermia, okay? I—“

Out of the corner of his eye, there’s movement. Something golden, streaking across the snow. The laugh Martin lets out feels crazy, just a puff of stubbornly warm air, but through its fog he can still see. Daisy, bounding through the vast white. The scorching red of Basira’s hijab, bright against the snow, and the lively green of Jon’s puffy coat, just behind her.

“ _Daisy_ ,” Martin half sobs, as she wiggles up against him, licking his face.

“God, Martin, you’re crazy,” Basira huffs, hands on her knees, when she and Jon manage to catch up.

“It’s—it’s just— _Peter_ ,” is all Martin can say. “I don’t know what to do—we’re out here and there’s no signal and I was too stupid to tell anyone because I thought I could do it myself, and now he’s going to get hypothermia, I—“

“Martin.” Before him, Jon crouches. Puts a gloved hand on Martin’s cheek. “Martin, it’s okay. You found Peter. And we found you.”

“But I haven’t been talking to you,” Martin whispers, his throat raw. Oh, now is not the time to be discussing this. “I’ve been—I just wasn’t—why would you still _care_.“

And that, of all things, makes Jon straighten, a blaze in his eyes.

“Martin, I’m an adult orphan, a youth counselor, and a workaholic. Do you honestly think I don’t know what a fight with depression looks like? From a place as a teacher, as much as I do personally?”

Martin sucks in a trembling breath. “I don’t have—I don’t have a reason to be—“

“Depression isn’t _reasonable_ , Martin,” Jon snaps, but then it softens, melts. “Martin, we’re here for you. Do you think everything we’ve done together is moot because we haven’t talked much this term? Would you do that to me?”

Martin has no friends. Martin has no exes. Martin has a kid he tutors, one who pretends not to like him, who’s lying unconscious in his arms.

“No.” He swallows. “Never, Jon.”

“There you go.” Before he can think better of it, Martin leans into Jon’s hand, presses it between his shoulder and cheek. “You’re always there for me, Martin. Let me be here for you, for once. Come on. If Basira says we can move him, we’ll go home. Get you both warm.”

“All right,” Martin murmurs. “All right. But how will we…”

“Don’t worry,” Jon says, gentle. “I know the way.”

* * *

They drop Peter off into the butler and the family doctor’s capable hands at home, though he wakes close to the end, just to mumble, “you came for me.”

“I did,” Martin agrees from above. “Carried you through a few snowbanks. Couldn’t carry your sledge, though. Sorry.”

“You’re _stupid_ and no one likes you,” Peter spits, but then he’s crying, snotty and red-cheeked. Thank god. Martin was tired of seeing him so pale. _You like me_ , Martin doesn’t tell him. _I’m your only friend._ “My foot hurts.”

“Just a little ways more,” Martin promises him. “Maybe could you, erm, stop disappearing off into the wilderness with no warning after this?”

Peter makes no promises, but when they’ve deposited him into a pile of what is probably cashmere blankets, he gives a false smile that turns into a real one before fiercely scowling.

“Come on,” Basira says, tugging at his arm.

“I should talk to his pare—“

“We’re getting you home,” Jon interrupts, firmly. He takes his hand. “Martin, you’re freezing. I’m going to warm you up.”

There’s nothing to protest, after that. In the car, Jon won’t let him sleep, just drags Martin’s head onto his shoulder and puts a tight arm around him. Every once in a while, he rubs, absentminded. From the front seat, Daisy happily pants at them.

“I’d give you my coat,” he mutters into Martin’s still-snowmelt hair, “but I don’t think it’d cover more than your arm.”

“It’s fine,” Martin squeaks.

“Don’t go to sleep,” Basira warns from the driver’s seat. She doesn’t understand that _his head is on Jon’s shoulder_. Sleep isn’t an issue.

“Are you worried about me?” Martin chatters, trying to make light of it all.

“Of course I’m worried about you,” Basira sighs. “Daisy was going crazy, too. We all care about you, Martin.” _Oh_.

 _You’re alone_ , Martin’s traitorous mind tries to remind him. Today, it’s not so convincing. Breathing in the comforting smell of Jon, he doesn’t even notice when she makes a few wrong turns.

“This isn’t my house,” he protests, when Jon unbuckles his seatbelt for him.

“It’s my house,” Jon agrees, and clambers out. “Thanks for the ride, Basira. And—for everything. I’ll see you when school starts?”

Basira scoffs. “Yeah, look, if you think I’m not checking in on you and the hypothermiac sometime in the next week, you don’t know much about me.”

“Oh,” Jon says, tugging on Martin until he exits the vehicle. “Oh, alright then. You know my number.”

“Bye,” Basira says, and pulls away. Martin blinks, but it’s still Jon’s house they’ve both gotten out in front of.

“Come on,” Jon says, taking his arm. Martin wants to cry. “I’ll make you tea.”

It’s all a blur, after that. Unbuttoning his wet coat, Jon settles him in on the couch, squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll be back.” When he moves away, his hand drags all the way down Martin’s arm.

Once he’s gone, Martin brings his knees to his chest. Shudders. It seems like too much.

Jon returns, with enough blankets to cover three of Martin, and he tucks them around him. “Earl Grey?”

“Yep,” Martin says, scarcely able to think about it. “Thanks.”

At the look on his face, Jon says softly, “you have five cups a day. It’d be stranger if I didn’t know what you liked.”

“Okay,” Martin agrees.

The saucer and teacup have clearly been decorated by a child, with swirls and unsteady lines in bright colors. The way it feels on his shivering fingers makes something bloom in his chest.

“Slowly,” Jon instructs, balancing it in his hands, on his blanketed knees. He’s so close. He made tea. He made Martin _tea_ — “Comfortable?”

“Mm,” Martin says, and leans forward. Somehow, Jon’s tipping forward too, eyes on his. Jon’s lips are a little chapped, a little dry. He brings his hand back to rest on Martin’s cheek, stroking his thumb over the curve. He breaks away once, just to lean in twice more, brief touches. Each time, he takes a little breath before, almost a question. Like he’s—wondering. _Ask_ , Martin’s heartbeat chants, _ask ask ask ask ask._

Then Jon pulls away. Clears his throat. Even with his darker complexion, he’s bright red. “Well,” he coughs.

“ _Oh_ ,” Martin flushes, and his eyes drop to his tea impossibly fast. _Be brave. Take action._ He says, “I think we’ve both been wanting that, er, for a while. I’m not sorry.”

“I don’t, ah, expect you to be?”

“Cool,” Martin says. “Cool cool.”

“Yes, that was—good. Very good. I’m glad you’re feeling better. Stay warm, but don’t go to sleep yet, okay?”

“Kay,” Martin hums, already drowsy.

“I mean it,” Jon threatens, but right now, nothing can scare Martin. Least of all Jon. Nothing at all.

“Will you,” he begins, bites his lip. “Will you, ah.”

“I’ll stay.” Jon settles on the couch beside him, one hand on his knee. “Martin, of course I’ll stay.”

 _Forever_ , Martin thinks.

And Jon does.

* * *

Martin doesn’t visit his mother for Christmas, again. This year, it doesn’t matter.

“I would pull out my own rib for you,” Jon is saying into the phone, from his side of the bed, “but I won’t eat Hungarian food for Christmas dinner, Georgie.”

“You’re not even religious,” Melanie’s voice says from the speaker.

“No, but I believe holidays meals are meant to be a good time for all—“

“We’re bringing goulash and The Admiral and _you can’t stop us_ ,” Georgie laughs. “Oh, invite Basira, will you? And obviously Martin, if you’ve gotten up the balls to—“

“Hi,” Martin peeps from over Jon’s shoulder.

“It’s _awfully_ early in the morning for Martin to be at your house,” Melanie observes.

“Not if he slept over,” Jon says, very factually, and scowls.

“You said to cuddle him,” Martin adds, feeling braver than he actually is.

“ _Yes_ ,” Melanie hisses, almost vicious. “Oh, we called it, we so called it.”

“Everyone called it. We’ll be by at four tomorrow, lovebirds,” Georgie says, and they hang up.

Jon sighs, and snuggles back against Martin’s chest. _Hi_ , his smile says, even if his eyes are closed, content. “If I don’t decorate, Georgie will make fun of me.”

“Georgie’s going to make fun of you either way.”

“Mm, but if I decorate, at least I won’t deserve it.” He sighs. “You’re the motivated one, Martin, you get us up.” Martin kisses him on the forehead.

“I will.” He squeezes. “Eventually,” he amends. “I do have to go by my place and pick up your present.”

“Or,” Jon says, “you could stay here.”

If Martin stays through Christmas, he’ll have to leave at some point to feed Mr. Moocow, and he won’t know whether he should come back. He’s hesitant to ask how long he’s welcome, or to—assume how long he’s welcome. Martin doesn’t have a lot of experience with this. The safest bet is to leave it open.

“I’d be your gift,” he says finally, “except, erm, I need to feed Mr. Moocow every other day.”

Jon blinks, twisting around in Martin’s arms to peer up at him. “Can’t you—bring him here?”

“Oh! Oh, I—I could, couldn’t I?” Martin can’t even bear to look directly back. “I suppose his zombie days are over. It’d be safe to bring him here. He’s a good Mr. Moocow.”

“Mm,” Jon hums, and tucks his face into Martin’s chest. “A good Mr. Moocow indeed.” Well. That settles that, Martin supposes.

“Jon,” he whispers. “I really, really like you.”

Nodding, Jon fists up the fabric of Martin’s shirt in his hands, buries his ear right up against Martin’s heart, and shudders, just the tiniest bit.

Martin continues to hold him, because it’s as close as they can both get to an _I love you._ It’s not about fear, necessarily, though maybe a little. It’s about finding the right time. It’s about understanding, and having faith, without the words.

 _Someday we’ll get there_ , Martin doesn’t have to think. He just knows.

* * *

There’s Basira, and Georgie, and Melanie, and Daisy, and even Peter, surprisingly quiet and sincere over the phone when Martin wishes him a Merry Christmas. And—there’s Jon. There’s a lot of Jon.

So Christmas is perfect.

Their first day back at school is—less perfect.

Elias kicks the headteacher’s office door in. “PETER BROKE HIS ANKLE,” he announces.

“Yes, we were there,” Jon sighs.

“ _We_ didn’t break his ankle,” Martin clarifies.

“Oh, don’t tell him that,” Jon says, with a smile that Martin understands is meant to be morbidly amused.

“My date plan was for us to go canoeing!” Ouch. “Some warning would’ve been nice! What the fuck am I supposed to do with him now? Have you seen him?! I bribed him into one date so it better be the _shit_.”

“Eat fish and chips and people-watch?” Martin says blankly, because he knows this is Elias’ favorite activity.

This suggestion is considered. “He better _like_ it,” Elias snarls.

“He accepted the bet, didn’t he?” Martin points out. If Elias didn’t have a fighting chance, he doesn’t think Peter would even have deigned to that. “Erm, can I ask what this bet was?”

“Yeah, it has to do with you,” Elias acknowledges easily. “Am I gonna tell you what it was? No. I am mysterious and full of dark plans.” Martin resigns himself to this. Middle schoolers are beyond him.

Outside the windows, each of the fourteen mini-buses are pulling up. The first day of the new term.

“It’s time,” Jon says, very grimly. He grabs Martin’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “Here they come.”

“I’ll prepare the tea,” Martin says, also very seriously. “Jon, we are going to make it through this. We’re in it together.”

“You’re such _losers_ ,” Elias snorts. “They’re just a bunch of kids. It’s not the end of the world.”

“They’re our kids,” Martin corrects. “And they’re our little _monsters_.”

Bobbing backpacks stream through the doors. Helen and Nikola run right up to the window of the headteacher’s office, waving to Jon, before Helen ducks off… somewhere… and Nikola dances away. Jon puts the blinds down, sighing. Elias is already long gone.

“Have a good day,” Martin says, bending down, and Jon kisses him.

“See you after school,” he murmurs. And maybe—maybe Martin knows the first passing period is the longest. Maybe he’s buzzy, excited to see his class again. Maybe it’s the first day they’re back here, together, and he hasn’t quite gotten over the giddiness that runs through him every time Jon gives him that small smile.

Maybe he shouldn’t be making out with Jon in the headteacher’s office, holding him close, but, they are. Or at least, they are until—

“Is that first bell?” Martin wrenches himself away.

“That,” Jon groans, “is the fire alarm.”

“And so it begins,” Martin tries to say, ominously, and Jon chokes on laughter and barely gets out a _Martin!_

In a way, Martin thinks, impossibly happy, it really is just beginning. Together, they open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my [ tumblr ](https://kiaronna.tumblr.com/).  
> THANKS FOR SUFFERING ALONGSIDE ME. Y'all give me life. I love these kids and your feedback. I love fluff.  
> this turned into a monster real quick, and it was a monster with a deadline bc i wanted this out before S5  
> does it need more editing? yeah. am i sleepy. yeah  
> listening to Martin describe the lonely is literally just a beautifully, horrifically realistic depiction of depression and social withdrawal and I'm grateful it exists. Sorry if it made the kidfic a lil real.  
> Breekon and Hope are the mailmen who sneak lollipops to the kids btw  
> Hello I'm from the US of A and if I messed up British things then I'm sorry, but look, when even something as inconspicuous as "sledding" has another word in British English I cannot be held responsible  
> Martin and Jon deserve love, bye

**Author's Note:**

> whooooooooeeeeee I've written a lot of part 2 but you know it's gonna be seasons 3 and 4  
> I love Elias' tween angst so much and I don't care what you think, sorry. He's legit inspired by the John Mulaney skit that starts with "thirteen-year-olds are the meanest people in the world"  
> SCHOOL'S OUT FOR THE SUMMER  
> SCHOOL'S BLOWN INTO PIECES  
> Y'ALL THERE'S [CHARACTER DESIGNS](https://p1nkwitch.tumblr.com/post/615781023417024512/read-schools-out-for-the-summer-from-kiaronna) AND IT'S FRICKIN ADORABLE  
> thank u for my entire life and specifically "behold!"


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